


Boy In The Box

by Mellow_Yellow



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, M/M, Not That Slow Though, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 1, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 145,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kid with the red hair stood next to his sister like they knew each other, like they were friends, but Mickey (and that was his name, his mind reminded him, like it was rewarding itself for doing a trick, the name the redhead had said, <em>Mickey,</em> he was Mickey), didn’t know him. </p><p>Of course, Mickey couldn’t trust him.</p><p>“But I thought…Mickey’s dead,” the kid whispered to Mandy, speaking softly like he didn’t expect Mickey to be able to hear him, or <em>understand,</em> like he was <em>stupid.</em></p><p>“He wasn’t dead,” Mandy said clearly, like she was speaking to Mickey, too. “He was just…lost.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU taking place in Season 1, although widely canon-divergent. TW for implied child abuse.

*******

**April**

*******

When they pulled the box out of the ground, it was so light that at first, the investigators assumed it was empty. But it became apparent when they pried the dry, creaky wooden lid off that it wasn’t empty, not at all. 

There was a boy inside.

He was curled on his side with his knees tucked under his chin, skinny and naked and streaked with grime. His eyes were squeezed tight, and he remained completely still even as the lid was lifted off, as the light poured into the box, as the alarmed voices of the investigators lapped at him like a whirlpool.

He kept his eyes closed despite the sudden birghtness and cacophony of noise, startled into immobility. He couldn’t tell if he was dreaming. Were the people above him a dream he was having, or was he something they had dreamed up instead? Would he just blink back out of existence once they woke up?

It was too confusing, and he knew if he opened his eyes it would only get more complicated, or, worst of all, he’d open his eyes and he’d be suddenly awake, faced with nothing but darkness again.

But if there was one thing the boy knew about himself, one thing that he clung to with an almost fanatical certainty, was that he was not a coward.

So he let his body tremble for a moment, because he’d learned that trying to fight it only made the shaking worse, and felt the way his heart was beating hard enough to be painful, and tried to isolate what the voices above him were saying (it had been so long since he’d heard words, it felt something like trying to remember a forgotten second language), and he knew it was time to wake up now.

He opened his eyes.

*******

**May**

*******

When Ian woke up with a sudden gasp, it took him a minute to identify what had actually yanked him from sleep. He blinked blearily, then hauled himself up in bed so he could see out the window. He reached to swat at the faded white curtain. As it shifted, he saw lights flashing and then he heard it again, the woop- _woop_ of sirens that had woken him up in the first place.

He watched an ambulance drive by, tailed by a few cop cars. A moment later there was a fire truck.

Seemed like an awful lot of cavalry for a robbery or a liquor store hold up, especially at—shit what time was it, seven in the morning? On a _Sunday_ , no less. He rubbed at his eyes. Maybe there was a shooting.

Ian had a hard time falling back to sleep once he woke up in the mornings, even on the weekends, and while it was irritating he’d been roused so early, there was no fighting his fate. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sighing heavily. Across the room, Carl and Lip were sound asleep on the bunk beds, and beside him Liam was still scrunched up in his crib, butt high in the air, snoring softly.

Ian’s cell phone rang, the ringtone piercing in the quiet of the bedroom.

He dove for it, but not before Lip groaned and rolled over in the bunk bed. “Are you _kidding me_ ,” he slurred, annoyed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ian muttered, fumbling as he tried to turn the phone on silent. He turned it so he could see the caller ID on the display. _Mandy_. He tilted his head in surprise.

He hadn’t heard from Mandy in almost a month. She’d sent him a text a week before school let out for the summer saying that some family stuff had come up, and since then it had been radio silence. Ian had been feeling almost embarrassingly hurt by it lately. He considered letting it ring forever (which it would, because he had never taken the time to set up his voicemail, to Mandy’s eternal annoyance). It was tempting. And it would serve her right, declaring them best friends and then dropping off the face of the earth.

Best friends didn’t bail out without an explanation, he thought stubbornly.

But then, almost against his will, his thoughts shifted to wondering if something had happened, if Mandy was in trouble or needed his help. And after all, best friends didn't bail, and he couldn't let his need for vengeance overshadow that. He flipped the phone open. 

“Mandy?” he whispered, still aware of his brothers sleeping beside him. “What’s up?”

“Ian, can you come over?” she asked, her voice urgent.

Ian’s spine stiffened so he was suddenly ramrod straight. “Are you okay?” The response was automatic, his brain shifting back into protective best friend mode with barely any effort at all.

Across the room, Lip lifted his head up sharply. “Ian. Are you serious.”

Ian winced—it was seven in the morning on a weekend, after all—and waved a placating hand in Lip’s direction. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, then to Mandy, “hold on.” He hurried into the hallway and closed the door to the boy’s bedroom behind him. He put the phone back to his ear. “Okay. What’s going?” 

On the other end of the phone, there was the muffled sound of something made of glass breaking, then something big falling to the ground after it. “Shit,” Mandy muttered. “Ian, can you just come over? Please?”

“Fuck, Mandy, what’s—”

“ _Please_ , Ian,” she interrupted hoarsely, and Ian could recognize the sound of Mandy holding back tears better than he could her actually crying.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, her voice breaking. 

Distantly, Ian was aware of his hands starting to shake in contact anxiety. There were a few more sounds of a struggle in the background.  

“Okay,” he said, concentrating instead on keeping his own voice steady, “I’m coming now. Hang tight.”

Mandy hung up immediately like they did in the movies, without saying goodbye.

Ian hesitated for a few crucial moments in the empty, silent hallway, his mind struggling with being so suddenly awake and yet so very confused, before he shook himself and moved into action.

Back in the bedroom, got dressed hurriedly, bolting back out without taking the time to tie his shoes. Fiona and Debbie’s doors were still shut as he hurried down the stairs into the empty living room, and out onto the sidewalk.

The Milkovich house was only a block and a half away and he jogged briskly, already starting to sweat in the early heat of the late spring morning.

Maybe it was something to do with her dad. Maybe he should’ve brought a bat, or a tire iron, or something big enough to bring the enormous bastard down. Judging by the sounds of chaos he’d heard, maybe her dad or brothers was high on PCP or bath salts or some other shit, did that make you violent? Ian wasn’t sure, but it seemed possible. He cursed himself for not taking the time to shake Lip awake and ask him.

Most all, Ian wondered if he’d be able to handle Terry Milkovich or one of his sons, all Hulk-ed out on god knew what, on his own. But he was already turning to the corner to Mandy’s house and he didn’t have time to back out now.

In the distance, he could still hear the sirens that had woken him earlier, wooping faintly a few blocks away, but it was like he had tunnel vision. All he could focus on was the Milkovich front door, which stood deceptively quiet and still before him.

He heard a muffled boom, just like the crashes he’d heard over the phone with Mandy, and loped up the front steps two at a time, pushing open the unlocked door.

“Mandy?” he called out, only wondering after if he should've keep his entrance on the down-low. He took in the room before him, which at first glance looked just as statically unkempt and grungy as the Milkovich living room ever looked. There were no immediate signs of any commotion. There was also no Mandy, or any other member of her family.

“Mandy?” he said again, this time softly, in confusion, to himself.

There was an indistinct thump, coming from the back of the house, making Ian flinch and startle, and at that moment Mandy poked her head out from around the kitchen doorway. 

“Ian,” she said feelingly. Her face strained with exhaustion. She stumbled in her hurry as she came to his side and when Ian held out a hand to steady her, she more or less collapsed against him. He could feel her shaking. He’d never seen Mandy like this before.

“Mandy, are you okay?” he asked, twisting her around so he could see her face more clearly. Her eyes were red and wet and wide as dinner plates. 

She laughed wildly, like Ian had said something particularly hilarious. “I didn't know who else to call,” she said, her voice shaking like it had on the phone. "I didn’t even know he left the house, fuck! He's like a motherfucking _ninja_."

“Know who had left the house? Your dad?” Ian asked. He expected Terry or some other Milkovich male to come thundering out into the living room, but nobody did.

In the back of the house, there was another clatter, this one smaller.

“No, my dad’s in Michigan. He took my brothers on a job, it was only for a day, but this is the first time he left me alone with him. The lady at the hospital said we needed to be careful, but what does that even mean? How can I be fucking careful if I didn’t even know he’d left!” Mandy paused, taking a breath, but it didn’t seem to do much to contain the waterfall of words. “And now he’s freaking out and I don’t know what to do, _fuck_ ,” she burst out.

It took everything Ian had not to give into horror movie cliché and shake Mandy by the shoulders and tell her to slow down, she wasn’t making any sense.

Instead he swallowed, trying to reign in his own pounding heart. “Are you hurt?” he said, because first things first, “did anyone hurt you?”

Mandy shook her head roughly, sending her colorful, messy hair flying around her shoulders. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” She threw a furtive look over her shoulder, then refocused back on Ian. “I think he might’ve set a fire, though. I think—I think that’s where he went earlier.”

Vaguely, Ian remembered the sirens that morning, the cop cars and fire trucks that had woken him up as they raced by his window.

He refocused on Mandy. “Who else is in the house?”

It was like turning a faucet handle violently to the right. She sucked both her top and bottom lip into her mouth, abruptly stemming her own ability to speak. 

Ian thought maybe he should just give her a minute, but the longer he looked the less he understood what he was looking at. Mandy’s jaw set firmly, her eyes darting away from his. She didn’t look scared, Ian was realizing. She looked like she was hiding something.

There was another crash, and this time Ian was able to isolate where it was coming from. The farthest of the back bedrooms, behind the living room. 

“Stay behind me,” he told Mandy, pushing her gently to his back. She mouth fell open, then she snapped it shut again. She grabbed his elbow, holding him back, and he turned to look at her, trying to convey calm. He was ready to ROTC the shit out this situation. “It’ll be okay.”

Mandy let go of his elbow, but not before saying, fervently, “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Okay,” Ian said, with no idea what he was agreeing to.

The deeper they went into the house, Mandy creeping so close behind him she kept stepping on the heels of his shoe, the easier Ian could tell there was definitely someone else inside, and they were in the bedroom with the closed door, pacing around, breathing heavily.

He put his hand on the doorknob, testing it minutely, and saw it wasn’t locked. He hesitated for a second, thinking maybe he should come up with some kind of plan in case whoever was on the other side was dangerous, but then, planning was always more Lip’s game than his. Sudden bursts of valor, that was more his strength.

He turned the handle and pushed the door open in one movement, stepping into the doorway so he could see inside the bedroom, which even a cursory glance showed had been mostly ripped apart. 

He heard a sharp, gasping inhale, and realized a moment later it was his own.

There was a boy in the room. It was hard to tell how old he was because he was so skinny, but he was at least Ian’s age. He was standing still in the center of the room, staring fixedly at Ian’s shoulder, his own shoulders rising sharply up and down with the force of his gasping breaths.

The air smelled vaguely like smoke. Ian thought idly Mandy probably wasn’t far off about that fire theory from earlier.

The boy had the brightest blue eyes Ian had ever seen. They looked like Mandy's eyes. But if he didn’t recognize the eyes, the tattoos on the knuckles of the boy's hands, held in tight fists, would’ve done it too.

He remembered Mandy telling him about those tattoos. 

He couldn’t really believe what he was seeing, what his eyes were telling him he was seeing. It was impossible, he thought, even as his brain clicked in recognition. The boy in front of him was supposed to be dead, or at least _gone_ , probably gone forever.

Beside him, Mandy put her hand on Ian’s elbow again, but Ian barely noticed.

“Mandy,” he said, croaking in surprise, so he tried again, muttering to her out of the corner of his mouth like the boy wasn’t _right there_ in front of them and could hear everything Ian was saying (but then, the boy wasn’t supposed to be there, there was _no way_ he was there), “ _Mandy_. Is that…is that your brother?”

 

*******

 

The kid with the red hair stood next to his sister like they knew each other, like they were friends, but Mickey (and that was his name, his mind reminded him, like it was rewarding itself for doing a trick, _Mickey_ , he was Mickey), didn’t know him.

Of course, Mickey couldn’t trust him.

“But I thought…Mickey’s dead,” the kid said to Mandy, speaking softly like he didn’t expect Mickey to be able to hear him, or _understand_ , like he was _stupid_.

Mandy kept close to the kid’s elbow, but she looked at Mickey despairingly. Mickey didn’t meet her eyes, it still felt wrong to stare at someone’s face like that, but he could catch her expression out of the corner of his vision as he stared sightlessly at the redheaded kid’s shoulder. 

“He wasn’t dead,” Mandy said clearly, like she was speaking to Mickey, too. “He was just…lost.”

Mickey could feel the sharp pain of his fingernails digging into his palms. It hurt, but it helped him feel like he was inside his own body again, rather than tethered and floating far away from it.

He still wanted to go over to the wall and throw the one remaining unscathed piece of furniture, a hulking cabinet of drawers, to the ground, craved the sound of wood cracking and exploding with the impact, but he was torn by the distraction of the people in the room, of the redheaded boy in front of him especially.

So he stood, still winded, warily eyeing them both, but mostly eyeing the boy.

They were chittering quickly back and forth now, like squirrels, and it wasn’t that Mickey couldn’t understand them, he _could_ , but they were speaking so fast, and he was still getting used to hearing other people speak, rather than the sound of his own voice in his own head. He could separate the words if he focused, but it was easier, and sometimes it felt better, to just let the sounds sweep over his skin without organizing them into words first.

That’s what he did now, noticing how the rustling sound of their furtive whispers was unexpectedly soothing to his ears. The redheaded kid had a really nice voice, Mickey thought. He didn’t realize he had stopped pressing his nails into his palms until the weight of his fingers going suddenly slack tugged the muscles of his wrists.

He didn’t really feel like smashing anything else in the room anymore.

He didn’t like most people’s voices. He felt so overwhelmed by the all the sound and noise that had suddenly invaded his world, the din inescapable when he’d known only quiet for so long, but the kid next to Mandy—his voice wasn’t so bad. It was surprisingly deep for someone so thin and reedy.

Their earlier whispers began to to turn into more of a whisper-shouting fight.The change in volume was what caught Mickey’s attention, because now he was drawn to the individual words again, somewhat against his will, rather than hearing the comforting, collective sha-sha-sha sound of their whispering.

“How was I supposed to tell you?” Mandy demanded shrilly. She’d been trying a lot less diligently to keep her voice down than the kid next to her, and by now was more shouting than whispering. 

He couldn’t avoid growing tense, his skin tight and alert, becoming swept away by their rising argument.

“Fuck, I don’t know, _Mandy_ , but this is kind of a huge deal!” the kid yelped.

“I know that, _Ian_ , thanks for weighing in,” Mandy bit back.

Ian. It took Mickey a beat to realize it was a name, not just a sound for a word he didn’t know anymore. The redheaded kid’s name was Ian.

“What the hell did you call me for then?” Ian yelled, loudly. “What the hell am I supposed to do here?” Very loudly. 

Loudly enough that something clicked in Mickey’s head, the low growling part of himself that had told him, for the last three years, how to survive.

When to cower and when to snarl, when to be still and when to charge. 

This time, he charged.

He was almost at Ian’s throat before either Ian or Mandy noticed. He knew he was making noise of his own, a yell that made Mandy gasp, but his only urge was to make the loud arguing words coming from Ian’s mouth _stop_.

Ian threw out his arm so his forearm could block the attack.

“Hey, _don’t_ ,” he said, sharply.

Mickey didn’t know why the command, or the abortive gesture, made his body stop. He didn’t spend time thinking why his body did what it did anymore. He just froze, stopping inches away before the arm could make contact, bouncing back a little like Ian’s arm had a force field around it. 

Slowly, Mickey let his raised fist fall down to his side, smacking lightly on his hip. He sucked in a sharp breath, then another, slower this time. Ian watched him settle tensely, until he seemed satisfied Mickey wasn’t going to attack again. Mickey watched Ian’s shoulders relax in fascination.

Mandy’s mouth fell open. She looked at where Mickey stood still and silent, then back at Ian, then back at Mickey. Mickey looked down at his bare feet and let his face go blank.

“How did you do that?” Mandy asked Ian, like Ian had performed a magic trick.

Mickey felt like snarling. His head came up sharply. Ian hadn’t done anything. Mickey had stopped himself. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Ian said. He sounded gratifyingly perplexed, which, _good_. He hadn’t made Mickey do anything.

Ian’s eyes were wide and green, staring down at Mickey in surprise. From his position closer up, Mickey glared at his cheekbone.

Beside him, Mandy laughed nervously. “Well, might as well introduce you guys, I guess,” she said shakily. “I mean, I don’t know if you really knew each other, like, _before_ , but…” She trailed off, and cleared her throat.

With a nod in Mickey’s direction, Mandy said, in a steadier voice, “Ian, this is Mickey. They found him in Indiana a few weeks ago.”

 

*******

 

They ended up in the kitchen. Well, Ian followed Mandy into the kitchen, and Mickey kind of drifted in after Ian. It made him a little jumpy, having Mickey at his back like that, even if the guy seemed to have chilled out significantly since his aborted attempt to kick the shit out of Ian ten minutes ago.

And Ian had no doubt that that had been Mickey’s original intent. The other boy was significantly shorter and scrawnier than Ian, his face gaunt and bony, but just the memory of the expression that face, tight-eyed, mouth wide-open, the strangled yell ripping from his throat, the way it had happened really fast but felt like a series of contained individual seconds, the last seconds Ian would ever see, had made Ian genuinely think to himself,  _okay, this is how I die, torn to shreds by Mandy’s feral brother_.

But after things had sharply calmed, and Mandy had uncomfortably introduced them, Mickey had dropped his eyes from Ian’s cheek and gone back to staring at the inside of Ian’s shoulder, right where his collarbone met his breastbone, still watchful, but less obviously homicidal. 

Mandy went to the stove, where a pot was waiting on a burner. “You want some hot chocolate?” she asked Ian resignedly. She glanced at Mickey where he hovered just behind Ian’s back. “It used to be Mi—well, I think we could all use some.” 

Ian thought nonsensically that drinking hot chocolate in practically-summer made no fucking sense but nodded anyway. He sat uneasily in a kitchen chair. When he looked up, Mickey was looming over him. He had deep shadows etched under his eyes, the sharp arcs of his eyebrows furrowed, but he seemed more curious now than anything else.

“Sorry man, did you—you want this chair or something?” Ian stuttered. 

Mickey blinked. Ian felt himself flush, like he’d made some kind of social misstep, even though he had no idea what it might have been.

“Or you can just stand, that’s cool too,” Ian amended after an uncomfortable silence that seemed to stretch for days. 

“He can’t really—he doesn’t really talk,” Mandy said from her place by the stove. She leveled Mickey with a tired look. “I mean, he _can_ talk, obviously. He’s just, choosing not to. I guess.”

Ian caught a minute reactionary quirk of Mickey’s eyebrow. It seemed like a restrained eyebrow-version of a full eye roll.

When the hot chocolate was ready, Mandy handed a mug to Ian, and then another to Mickey. Mickey accepted it after a long considering pause, and even then he wrapped his grubby hands cautiously around the ceramic like he expected it to explode from his grasp at any moment. 

Hot chocolate distributed, Mandy sat down heavily in the kitchen chair opposite Ian.

“So I don't know if you noticed, but things around here are kind of fucked up right now,” she said, in what Ian considered relatively hilarious understatement.

Ian glanced up at Mickey, who was still standing at his shoulder, but was now glaring into the depths of his mug. He looked taller (but not by much), but other than that he looked very much the same as he did when he was thirteen, at least from what Ian could hazily remember.

“Yeah,” Ian answered idly, unable to take his eyes from Mickey’s pale, drawn face. He couldn’t help thinking he was looking at a ghost.

Everyone on the block knew about the Milkovich kid disappearing three years ago. Most people assumed Mickey Milkovich was killed in something drug or crime related, or maybe just ran away, despite Terry Milkovich surprisingly vehement insistence that Mickey wouldn’t just _run away like that_. The disappearance had spooked the whole neighborhood, for a while at least. 

Beside him, Mickey finally brought the mug to his lips, cupping it with both hands. He took a sip and immediately recoiled as the hot liquid burned his tongue.

He yelled, the same rough strangled sound from earlier in the bedroom, and smashed the mug onto the ground with the force of both his hands. 

Some of the scalding liquid splashed onto Mandy’s lap and left arm, making her leap from her chair with a hiss. 

“Dude, what the hell!” Ian shouted, jumping to his feet as well, instinctively moving between Mandy and Mickey, who was now panting in shock and anger again. Mickey went still when Ian spoke, eyes snapping back to the same point on Ian’s shoulder. 

“It’s okay,” Mandy tried to say, but Ian was shaking his head.

“No it’s not, he burned your hand.” He could see Mandy’s forearm turning red before his eyes. He threw an arch glance at Mickey, who was just…standing there. Watching him, shoulders visibly tense, waiting.

For what, Ian had no freaking idea. He had no idea what in the hell he’d stumbled into this morning, but it didn’t take a genius to see it was a land mine. 

“Just…sit down,” Ian said finally, to Mickey, gesturing irritably at the kitchen chair behind him. If nothing else, he couldn’t handle all three of them standing around looking at each other like assholes any longer.

When Mickey just glared stubbornly at his shoulder, still standing, Ian made an exasperated sound and went to the sink, stepping around the decimated mug on the floor, grabbing an only moderately dingy dishtowel from the counter and running it under cold water in the sink. He squeezed it out and handed it back to Mandy, then sat down in his chair. Slowly, pressing the towel to her red arm, Mandy followed his example, still watching Mickey carefully as she sat.

After a brief pause that seemed to be deliberating conveying that it was a choice, Mickey sat down in the third remaining kitchen chair.

“How are you doing this,” Mandy muttered in wonder.

“Doing _what_ ,” Ian shot back, residual frustration at the insanity of the situation boiling over.

“He doesn’t usually…hang around this long,” she said. "Or do what you tell him to."

Ian wrapped a hand around his mug where it still sat, now going cold, in front of him, but he made no move to drink it. He tried to ignore Mickey staring at him. He did not succeed. “Where does he go?”

“He hides,” Mandy said simply. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the kitchen table, watching Mickey again. She looked incredibly worn out, but her eyes were sharp, like she was watching Mickey for some kind of cue.

Mickey seemed to be pointedly ignoring her.

“This is all really weird, Mandy,” Ian said, helplessly, because it was, it was _so weird_ , he hadn’t heard from Mandy in weeks and all of sudden he comes over and there’s her _long-lost missing brother_ just chilling in a bedroom?

Mandy shrugged, similarly helplessly.

“Thanks for coming over,” she said, sincerely, sparing Ian a tight smile. “He’s a lot calmer, now.” She put her cheek in her hand, turning back to Mickey. “I think he likes you.”

Ian thought it was a little early to be jumping to those kinds of conclusions. Mickey was still watching Ian with an almost predatory intensity.

Not that Ian would compare Mickey to an animal, because he wouldn’t, Mickey wasn’t acting like an animal to Ian. Really he just seemed really, deeply, supremely _pissed off_ , and suspicious, of literally everything.

Before he could argue the point to Mandy though, there was the clanking sound of the gate at the sidewalk out front slamming shut. It echoed all the way from outside into the house, and then Ian heard the loud, raucous sounds of Mandy’s brothers.

“Shit,” she said, eyes going wide in panic, “ _shit_ , my dad’s home. You can’t be here.” She jumped to her feet and yanked Ian up with her.

Ian let her drag him along, instantly terrified at getting caught uninvited within the Milkovich web of secrecy.

“I have to clean this up,” Mandy said, waving frantically at the mess of ceramic and hot chocolate still splashed on the floor. She pulled Ian out of his chair and started shoving him toward the back door.

Mickey stood too, making a low sound in his throat, but Mandy just held up a palm, wordlessly telling him to settle. “Ian can come back later,” she told Mickey, which was news to Ian’s ears, and he didn’t really know why Mandy thought Mickey cared anyway. “Just not when Dad’s here." 

“Wait, Mandy—” Ian tried to say, but Mandy was already opening the screen door and pushing him out into the shabby backyard.

“Bye, Ian!” She pointed a finger right at his nose. “ _Don’t tell anyone_.” 

Before Ian could respond, he was staring at nothing but a silent, closed door.

He tilted his head back, groaning quietly. “What in the _fuck_ ,” he muttered to the sky. The sky had no rejoinder, so he didn’t see any other option than to start for home. 

Lip was awake and sitting on the front steps smoking a cigarette when Ian walked dazedly through the front gate. 

“Where the hell did you run off to this morning?” Lip asked. 

Ian collapsed on the steps next to Lip. “I had a…thing,” he said vaguely. He took the cigarette when Lip offered and took a long, soothing drag. 

“Don’t you got work?” Lip asked, taking the cigarette back.

Shit, Ian did, in like—he checked the time on his phone. Balls, he was going to be late.

He was never late, even before he’d started fucking around with Kash. Since that first awkward kiss, and subsequent awkward blowjob, Ian had been early to his shifts, eager to bask in the flattering glow of Kash’s enamored affection.

Now, he hesitated. He turned to Lip. “Do you remember Micky Milkovich at all?” he asked. He didn’t really understand the nature of the secret he was keeping for Mandy, not yet, but he’d promised, so he tried to play it casual.

Lip raised an eyebrow. “He was the younger one who ran away, right?”

“How do you know he ran away?” Ian asked, studying his shoes so he couldn’t give away his curiosity.

Snorting, Lip leaned farther back on the stairs. “You mean how Terry Milkovich went all crazy and tried to convince everyone Mickey was kidnapped, all that shit?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Ian said uncertainly.

Dimly, from deep within his memory, Ian could recall hearing his parents talk about the missing Milkovich boy in the weeks after he disappeared. Monica had said it was a real sad story either way. Frank had said it was just some fantasy Terry Milkovich was telling himself rather than believe his own thug son preferred to vanish out of thin air than stay in that godforsaken house.

Even as a little kid, Ian had thought it was pretty rich that Frank was casting judgment on someone else’s parenting ability.

Beside him, Lip shrugged, unconcerned. “Who knows, man,” he said. “I always thought he just ran away, but anything’s possible. You’d know more than me, I mean, you’re all best buddies with Mandy anymore. What does she think?”

“She never really talked about it,” Ian said. And she hadn’t, he realized, not one word. They’d become friends last year, long after the curiosity of Mickey Milkovich’s disappearance had begun to cool, but Ian had felt too weird asking about it, and Mandy never mentioned it.

It was like she was trying to forget, and Ian decided it was his duty as best friend to play along.

“Yo, you better move your ass,” Lip said after they’d fallen into a thoughtful quiet. “Don’t want Kash worrying about you.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Ian played along, rolled his eyes and punched Lip playfully on the shoulder, but his mind was elsewhere.

As he hurried to the Kash N Grab, he kept playing over the morning at the Milkovich house like it was a dream he’d had. It felt cloaked in surreality, especially the memory of Mickey’s tight, untrusting face, the way he’d almost aggressively refused to meet Ian’s eye.

He didn’t know where Mickey had been, or what had happened to him there. He thought maybe he didn't want to know. 

 

*******

 

After Mandy’s friend left (Ian, his mind muttered, liking the sound of it, _Ian_ ), Mickey drifted for a while. It was something he did a lot, just letting his mind unmoor itself for a while. It was soothing.

He ducked out of the kitchen as soon as he saw his dad enter the front door, his brothers behind him. He went into the back bedroom, still lying in stunned disarray from his rampage earlier, feeling the weight of Terry’s eyes on his back the entire time. 

He knew his dad wanted Mickey to be who he was before. More than that, he wanted Mickey to tell him what he remembered, what had happened in Indiana. Everyone wanted to know what had happened to him, but Terry’s need for the information was like a constant, fiery pressure on Mickey’s skin. He wanted Mickey to _talk to him_.

Mickey didn’t want to talk. It made him feel like he was choking.

So he drifted, feeling like a ghost, like everyone around him was solid while he was floating and transparent.

Occasionally he’d pop in, listen to what his dad and his brothers and his sister were talking about. His mom never came home. He knew distantly something had happened with his mom that nobody was telling him, but he felt too removed from anything to get hung up on it. He’d figure it out eventually. It wasn't like she had been around that much even before.

Besides, there was still the chance this was all another elaborate dream and he’d wake up again in the darkness, so there was no sense in getting attached.

Also, he could tell it made his family jumpy, having him around, his dad especially, his brothers preternaturally quiet when he was near, and he didn’t really like being around them either, or more specifically, _didn’t care_ , so he spent a lot of time curled up in a corner in the back bedroom. 

He was still trying to get used to all the limitless space that was now at his disposal. It made him nauseous sometimes. It felt calming to fold himself into the crook between the bed and the dresser.

It made his dad mad when he did that, he could tell, but because Terry was still so painfully, obsessively careful around him, he didn’t erupt or yell like Mickey’s memory expected him to. 

Mickey’s memory expected a lot of things, but it had disposed of a lot of things too. He didn’t know how much he could trust it. He hadn’t used it in so long.

Sometimes Mandy would come in and make sad faces at him, like she had that morning, after Mickey had come home and Ian had come over later, when he'd been unable to remember where he’d gone but smelling the smoke on his skin had given him the urge to tear apart the whole back bedroom with his hands.

That morning he’d been worried he would hurt Mandy, so he’d started destroying the furniture in the room instead. Violent, like the hospital lady had said he would be.

The hospital lady had said a lot of things when he’d first been found and brought back from Indiana, when he’d spent days in the sterile white room filled with nurses and doctors. She’d been trying to explain what Mickey might do if they took him out of the hospital and brought him back home against recommendations. It had seemed like she wanted him to stay in the hospital forever.

Mickey hadn’t listened to much that she’d said. He’d been too shocked and overwhelmed and gone rigidly still in self-defense, eyes squeezed shut for long stretches of time. The small, contained space of the hospital bed had felt comforting, at least.

Luckily, his dad hadn’t had much patience for the doctor talk and the social worker talk and any other kind of talk. He just wanted his son home, _goddamnit_ , his son needed be back _home_.

The hospital lady had backed down. Most people did, when faced with Terry’s anger.

Terry had always been a scary like that, as a dad and as a man. Mickey’s memory knew that much, at least. His dad was loud and intense but always strangely charismatic in his unpredictability. When he was in a good mood, Mickey remembered, the family fed off his happiness like honeybees; when that mood broke, it froze everyone in its path. 

Mickey had always been his favorite son, and Mickey recalled (abstractedly, the way you remembered a story about the friend of a friend you’d only met once or twice) that being Terry’s favorite had been both the best and the worst thing ever.

But trying to remember, to sift back through his mind to when he still lived with his family at this vaguely familiar house on the South Side during the period he cautiously labeled Before (and letting his mind skip glancingly over the darker, longer ambient period in between Before and Now)—engaging his memories at all, it just made it harder for Mickey to drift.

It anchored him in his body again, and he was unsure if he liked it or not.

From the kitchen, he suddenly heard Mandy arguing with their dad as her voice rose. “He can’t stay in the goddamn house forever,” she was saying loudly, just this side of yelling.

Mickey could tell Mandy was afraid of their dad. He couldn’t quite remember if she’d always been this afraid. She flinched whenever Terry raised his voice.

She still managed to fight with him, though, even if it made her voice shake.

“He doesn’t need all the fucking busybodies in the neighborhood gawking at him,” Terry shot back, and he was definitely yelling. “It’s too fucking soon, he’s not ready.”

Language was making more sense, Mickey noted absently. He’d always liked words. He used to love talking, jabbering fast, making fun of his brothers and cousins, proudly embracing his identity as Family Smartass, when he still lived in the house back Before.

Then words and really all other sounds aside from birds and distant car sounds had been taken away. Things went very quiet for a very long time.

Now words were everywhere again, and it was just _too much_ a lot of the time, filling his head like buzzing bees, but he could still feel himself absorbing them, relearning them, the click of recognition when he heard a phrase or a sentence and thought, _I know that one._  

“If he stays inside any more he’s just going to go fucking crazy,” Mandy argued.

“Maybe he already _is_ fucking crazy,” his dad shot back. 

Mandy sounded like she sucked in a breath in shock. His dad also fell silent. Some kind of line had been crossed, but Mickey wasn't curious or concentrating hard enough to figure it out. 

He felt the pull to drift, to float away like a ghost again, but before he could let his mind go Mandy cleared her throat.

“But the lady at the hospital—” she started to say, but Terry dove back in. 

“Don’t talk to me about what that bitch had to say, she doesn’t speak for this family,” Terry growled.

Mandy started to say something else, then there was a smacking sound, like a palm roughly meeting the wooden table. Mickey flinched from his spot curled against the well. His heart rate picked up. He dug his fingernails into his palm to stay grounded in his body. 

“We’re done talking about this, Mandy,” their dad said roughly. “He stays inside, and that’s my final fucking world, don’t make me say it again.” 

Mandy fell silent. From the living room, Mickey’s brothers cautiously resumed their chatter when the argument between Mandy and Terry seemed to be done for good. They turned on the loud, obnoxious TV (Mickey used to love the TV, his memory told him, it was his favorite thing to do, but not anymore, not since Before), and Mickey drifted back into his head. 

He heard the fridge open, shut, the heavy footsteps of his dad plodding out of the kitchen. Mickey tensed as he heard his dad pause outside his bedroom, then mutter and continue on to join the boys in the living room.

“What are you idiots watching?” Terry asked thickly.

Mickey wondered at the way his dad’s voice sounded. It was like listening to a stranger. The dad he remembered never choked up about anything.

It made him think of how sometimes at night, in the weeks since he’d been found and come home from the hospital, Mickey could hear his dad crying. It usually meant he was incredibly drunk, because during the day Terry maintained a controlled, tersely gruff facade.

Mickey kind of preferred the gruffness to the crying, frankly. It clashed with everything his memory tried to tell him was real.

He almost wished his dad would whale on him sometimes, just to feel the sense memory of Before.

Mandy, in that unnerving way she had of hearing the direction of his thoughts even though they were only in his head, quietly opened the bedroom door and walked in, shutting it silently behind her. She padded over and started righting some of the toppled furniture in his room, picking up the rest of the debris and setting them in a pile on Mickey’s bed.

Mickey kept staring at his feet, going perfectly still. Maybe if he kept quiet, she would leave. 

She sighed. “I think he’s just scared. Dad, I mean,” she said quietly as she tidied up the room. “He's also just a huge dick sometimes. But right now, he's just...the last few years…they’ve been rough.”

Mandy wasn’t as blunt in her need for Mickey to speak to her (“Goddamnit, why won’t he just say something?” his dad had exploded in the hospital, “what the hell is _wrong_ with him, why won’t he fucking _speak_?”) but that didn’t mean Mickey didn’t hear the questions behind her words sometimes. 

He heard the questions in her voice now.

He closed his eyes and pulled away from the sound of her speaking to him.

But rather than drifting away from all thought, like he expected to do, he found himself recalling Ian from earlier. He pictured his wild freckles in almost perfect detail in his mind.

He wondered if Mandy had been telling the truth, if Ian would come by again later.

If he was going to end up waking up and returning back to the darkness again, he hoped it wasn’t before he saw Ian again.

 

*******

 

“I don’t know if he likes me being here,” Ian said, keeping a wary eye on Mickey.

This wasn’t the first time he’d been to see Mandy at the Milkovich house since he’d discovered Mickey had come home, it wasn’t even the second time, but every time went through a pattern of tense quiet in the beginning where Mickey seemed to be deciding whether or not he wanted to rip into Ian with his teeth.

“He does,” Mandy said easily, like she did every time, “trust me, I can tell.”

Terry had started leaving Mandy alone with Mickey more often, taking the rest of the Milkovich boys out on jobs that lasted all day, like he didn’t trust anyone but Mandy to stay with Mickey, and like he didn't want to stay with him himself.

Mandy didn’t really talk about it, but Ian got the feeling her dad was frustrated about something. It seemed like he was avoiding the house.

They were in the kitchen again, their standard hangout location. Mickey was sitting this time, but he was a little unnervingly close to Ian’s side. Ian kept relatively still, and if he had to move, he moved slowly, so he wouldn’t brush up against Mickey accidentally.

It had been established early on that Mickey did not like to be touched, and especially not by Ian.

More specifically, the second time Ian had come back to the Milkovich house, Ian's his hip had brushed against Mickey’s side as he went to get a beer from the fridge and Mickey had exploded, lurching forward, caging Ian in against the countertop, gripping the laminate on either side of him so Ian had no escape.

“Fuck, what—” Ian had bitten out, but stopped when Mickey shoved even closer, putting their faces almost nose to nose without actually bringing any part of their bodies into contact, pressing forward angrily even as Ian leaned back out of his space.

Mickey stared thunderously at Ian’s shoulder, that special spot above his collarbone that seemed to fascinate him so, like he was delivering a stony lecture with just his eyes. He held still, every muscle wound tight, the sound of Mandy yelling something in distress fading into background noise as the two boys faced off, Ian seeing no option but to wait for Mickey to release him.

He held Ian there for a heartbeat, then another, proving some kind of point, and Ian had a fleeting, terrified thought that maybe he was just going to live here for the rest of his life, pinned between Mickey and the sticky countertop in the Milkovich kitchen, when Mickey sharply stepped away. 

Ian stumbled at the sudden freedom. Mickey didn’t really make facial expressions, per se, but Ian would definitely categorize the slight hitch of his eyebrow as a smirk.

So, Mickey was kind of a diva about his personal space, Ian had noted grudgingly. Message _received_.

And now, weeks after Ian’s initial bizarre introduction to Mickey Milkovich (and he was sure their paths had crossed, at one time or another, at some point in their parallel lives on the block before Mickey had disappeared, but the Mickey now was as different from the Mickey then as two strangers on the street, so it felt like they'd met for the first time), Ian was in the kitchen again, trying to make small talk with Mandy, trying to pretend that her brother wasn’t breathing down Ian’s neck in a very literal way.

“Did you sign up for European history next semester?” Mandy asked, sipping her hot chocolate casually. 

“Um,” Ian said, trying to keep the thread of the conversation when Mickey leaned in minutely, inhaling delicately. It wouldn’t hold up in court, but Ian thought he might be smelling him. “No. I don’t think, I mean—wait, is that the one they said would have all the additional reading due before school starts again?”

Ian lost track of Mandy’s response as he realized he could smell Mickey, too. He smelled kind of like grass and dirt, but not in a bad way. He wondered where the grass was coming from, since Mandy said Mickey wasn’t allowed out of the house yet. 

He also smelled like…smoke? Ian frowned slightly. Mickey smelled like smoke, just barely, not as strong as that first morning where Ian had opened the door onto the destroyed bedroom, but it was definitely there.

Before he could think better of it, Ian turned his head to look Mickey in the eye. Unsurprisingly, Mickey’s gaze were trained on Ian’s lower shoulder rather than his eyes, Mickey's own mug of hot chocolate sitting untouched on the table (he was infinitely suspicious of hot liquids now, but Mandy made him a mug every time Ian came over anyway).

“Did you go somewhere today?” he asked him. 

Mickey didn’t so much as stir in response. Ian didn’t really expect him to, he supposed, but it was just sometimes, he would see…something, in Mickey’s eyes. Like he was definitely there inside, listening or waiting, or something.

Whatever he was waiting for, it made Ian feel weird talking to Mandy like she was Mickey’s interpreter. It wasn’t like Mickey was talking to her either, or anybody else.

Which didn't really explain what motivated Ian to keep pushing. “You smell weird," he told Mickey. Mickey’s eyes remained stubbornly fixed on Ian’s shoulder. Ian inhaled again. There was definitely smoke, there was no way he was imagining it.

“He didn’t go anywhere,” Mandy said quickly. When Ian looked at her, she snorted, shaking her head. “When would he have had the chance? I’ve been with him since this morning when Dad left.” She gave a sarcastic salute. “Warden Mandy, reporting for duty.” Her words sounded derisive, toward who, Ian wasn’t really sure.

Mandy had always been a really effective liar. Ian narrowed his eyes a little, wondering if she was lying now or if she honestly didn’t think Mickey had left at some point. Maybe it was overnight?

“So how are things with Kash?” Mandy said, blatantly changing the subject.

Ian let her, dropping the mystery of the smoke smell for now. He was still distracted, so it took him a second to make sense of Mandy’s question. “What? Oh, things are.” He waved a hand vaguely, keeping it carefully away from Mickey’s face. “They’re whatever, things are good. 

“You letting him get it in on the regular?” Mandy smirked. 

Ian smirked back, grasping at the offer of easy gossip. “What makes you think he’s the one getting it in?” 

For a second, Ian could pretend it was just the two of them hanging out on the old swings in the trashy playground down the street.

Except for the reminder of Mickey’s silent form beside him. Who seemed to go, if possible,  _even stiller_  as they talked about Kash. 

Mandy threw her head back and cackled, and Ian cracked a smile. Mickey remained impassive.

“You want a cigarette?” she asked Ian once she'd calmed down, and when Ian nodded, she got up to go get some in her room.

Which left Ian, alone, with Mickey. Ian felt suddenly incredibly aware of every twitch, every blink, every breath he was taking. How did normal people breathe? He felt like his discomfort was incredibly obvious. 

The silence was excruciating. Ian was weak. He couldn’t take it.

“So,” he said cheerily, too cheerily, _why was he being so cheerful_ , “it must be good to be back, right?”

He immediately closed his eyes and wished for death to take him. What a stupid goddamn fucking question. If Mickey decided to kick his ass now, Ian didn’t really think he would blame him. 

Mickey didn’t kick his ass, though. Under the table, so gently Ian barely even registered it at first, Mickey’s knee brushed against Ian’s jeans.

Ian jerked when he realized what was happening, and went still, completely at a loss for how he should react.

Before he could decide, Mandy returned. She was holding up a nearly empty cigarette carton and scowling. “Fuck my fucking brothers man, all they do is steal my shit.” She quirked a smile at Mickey. “Not you though, you’re way better than those dipshits.”

Under the table, Mickey’s knee shifted again until it pressed, lightly but distinctly, against Ian’s leg. He did his best not to jerk in surprise. Maybe Mickey didn't realize he was touching Ian. He did his best to pretend like he didn't notice either.

Mandy lit the last cigarette and took a drag, handing it to Ian. “Here, we can share.” 

The light pressure of Mickey's knee against his own was weird enough. But then Ian felt the weight of a hand settling on his leg, just above his knee, fingers wrapping around in a firm hold, and he couldn't help but give a sharp jerk that felt more like a full-body shiver.

"You okay?" Mandy asked, frowning.

"Um," Ian said. He swallowed, carefully keeping his eyes on Mandy and refusing to glance at Mickey beside him. "Yeah, just got a chill."

Mandy didn't seem completely convinced, but she didn't press, changing the subject to Fucking Douchebag Guys In Their Grade Who Mandy Couldn't Stand.

As Ian nodded at Mandy's rant, he told himself he wasn't moving his knee away from Mickey's hand because he didn't want the other boy to get mad.

He tried to ignore how, after he got over the shock that Mickey's hand was on his knee, he found the warm weight unexpectedly grounding. Soothing, almost.

For the next ten minutes, Ian shared a cigarette with Mandy and tried not to marvel at the way Mickey's warm hand on his leg became nearly imperceptible the more used to it Ian got, like Mickey's hand had always been there. If Mickey expected any kind of a reaction from Ian, he didn't give any sign. He remained stoically still and silent as Ian and Mandy smoked the cigarette to the filter. Ian felt himself relaxing into the moment, inexplicably. 

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not when Fiona texted him that dinner was going to be early that night. Mickey didn't react when Ian stood up, gently dislodging Mickey's hand from his knee.

“You want to come back this weekend?” Mandy asked hopefully as she walked him to the door. Mickey stayed in the kitchen, staring silently at the table in front of him.

"Sure," Ian said, not sure if he was lying. 

He walked back to the house in a haze.

When Ian closed the gate behind him at the Gallagher house, Lip came barreling down the steps like he'd been waiting for him.

“Dude,” Lip said, skidding to a stop in front of Ian. “ _Dude_ , did you hear? Did you fucking _hear_?”

Ian shook his head, a little overwhelmed by Lip’s glee, but he wasn’t surprised. Lip tried to act above it all, but nobody loved some good neighborhood gossip more than Ian’s older brother. “No, what’s going on?”

“You won’t even believe—it’s so crazy.” Lip took a breath. “They found Mickey Milkovich.”

There was a sudden ringing in Ian’s ears. “What?”

“Yeah man, apparently they found him living in like, a fucking _shed_ , fucking POW-style,” Lip gabbed easily. “The cops and the city and shit were trying to keep it quiet, because he’s a minor and everything, and they’re still investigating who was keeping him there, but Karen heard it from her mom’s friend at Northwestern, the RN? She was there when they brought him, apparently. He was like a feral animal or something, she said. Shit, can you fucking imagine?” 

Lip seemed to be looking for a dramatic response, so Ian let his eyebrows go high. “Wow.”

“I know, it’s fucked up. Have you been over to the Milkovich house? Have you seen him at all?"

Ian shook his head. "Nope," he lied.

"You should ask Mandy what’s going on," Lip said, sounding disappointed at Ian's lack of information. Then he shrugged. “Anyway, Fiona’s making spaghetti for dinner, want to smoke a blunt beforehand?” Lip said.

“Sure,” Ian said, feeling hazy and slightly sick.

He thought of how carefully still Mickey was, all the time, even as he purposefully touched Ian for the first time. How watchful and on guard he seemed, always, despite his silence. Ian told himself he found Mickey’s blankness unnerving. And with what Lip had told him, the implication of what might have caused that blankness was horrifying.

Especially as Ian began to feel like maybe Mickey wasn’t so blank after all.

 

*** 

 

Mickey was becoming more aware of his days and nights, the way time was passing. It felt like his vision was getting sharper. He still spent hours drifting until he had to dig his fingernails into his palms to shock himself back into his body, but there were longer stretches of lucidity on either side of each drift.

He felt especially alert when Ian came to visit. It seemed to send a pulse of awareness through his whole body that lasted long after Ian left.

One night when he was curled near the wall while the rest of his family was asleep, he thought, yet again, of the afternoon when he had touched Ian’s leg, how Ian had gone carefully still but hadn't moved away, and marveled, yet again, at the way his entire palm tingled at the memory.  

He wanted to touch Ian again.

He hoarded that single memory as a distraction from the daily pulsing anxiety of the larger tangle of remembering, at trying to recall how to be the person he was Before. He could feel his dad, and Mandy, and to a lesser extent his brothers, waiting for Mickey to blink and be the kid he was Before. He wanted to tell everyone it was an impossible task.

He barely remembered that person, but the longer he was at home, the more he felt like he should be trying to, and it just made him panicky instead.

That panicky feeling happened more and more often as Terry started avoiding the house, usually taking Mickey’s brothers with him on vague trips Mickey couldn’t begin to care about. Mickey could still feel his dad’s gaze on him when he was in the house, but even though more often it was Mandy and Mickey alone together, Mickey could feel the disappointment lingering when his dad was gone.

A few days earlier he'd overheard Terry yelling at someone on the phone. He'd stood outside the kitchen, keeping completely quiet, listening to the argument. It sounded like someone from the hospital, maybe the original hospital lady who hadn’t wanted Mickey to come home so soon. It didn’t sound like the first argument Terry had had with this person, whoever they were.

“I’m his goddamn father, and it’s my goddamn right to decide if he goes to the nuthouse or not,” Terry thundered. “Just give the kid some goddamn breathing room, _goddamnit_.” 

Mickey tapped his finger against his thigh each time his dad said “goddamn”, and then scurried back to his room when he heard Terry hang up the phone.

And then listened as his dad rounded up Iggy and Joey (who knew where Colin was) with a few barked orders and left Mickey alone with Mandy at the house once again. He didn't know if he liked being left alone with Mandy. He did know that being around Mandy meant he was more likely to see Ian, so for now it seemed like a means to an end.

But now, tonight (or this morning, he could see the sun beginning to creep in through the window, which was a novelty, being able to use sunlight to tell time), was another stretch of time when he found himself growing restless.

When Mickey sneaked out of his house, it was a lot like drifting. Sometimes he lost the time completely. As he usually did anymore, he didn’t waste time wondering why his mind shut down when it did when confronted with the early morning emptiness of the neighborhood or the quiet hot night. It just did.

He leaned into it, the blankness, his feet taking him mechanically forward, out of his room, out of the house, down the block, through the neighborhood.

He knew without knowing why that he needed to keep out of sight, even as he went blank. Terry’s stubborn insistence that Mandy keep him in the house taught him that much.

When he came back to himself, he was in his room again. The knuckles of his hands were bloody and he had a gun in his hand. He blinked, looking down at it. Blinked again.

Well, that was different. 

It was like when he came home some mornings with smoke on his clothes (although never as strong as that first morning where he described his room, almost like the smoke smell was older) except this time he wasn’t angry and ready to fight someone. He couldn’t remember what had happened, but he felt awake, suddenly. Curious in a way he hadn’t felt since—maybe since Before, he couldn’t tell.

He stayed up the rest of the night wondering about it, what he had done, why he felt strangely smug about whatever it was.

After Terry left again the next morning, Mickey spent a surprising amount of his time actively trying to _remember_. It was a satisfying feeling, like he was stretching the muscles of his mind.

He kept trying to remember, even after Mandy made Mickey a sandwich he’d only been able to choke down part of (it still felt too alien, too amazing, to have access to food whenever he wanted it, even the shitty week-old bologna and stale bread in the cabinets) and gone to take a nap.

Mickey was alone in his room, basking in the ongoing excitement of _wanting_ to remember, feeling awake, feeling halfway alive since he’d been found and brought back to his house with his family, when the front door opened. He went still and alert, rising to a crouch behind the bed. 

His bedroom door burst open, making him jerk, but it was only Ian standing on the other side of it.

Ian's cheeks were bright red, his shoulders jerking with his sharp breaths.

“You broke into Kash’s store and stole the gun, didn’t you,” he accused furiously.

Mickey rose to his feet, staring at Ian’s shoulder. He felt his eyebrows furrow. For a minute he wondered if he had summoned Ian to his room with the force of his mind.

Ian seemed beyond frustrated by Mickey’s silence, like Mickey had ever been anything but silent with him before.

“I fucking saw the tapes, you’re lucky not everyone knows you’re back yet or Linda would have your _ass_ , man. The fuck is wrong with you?”

Ian was pacing fitfully now, moving on the balls of his feet, and Mickey felt the energy coming off the other boy like he was standing in front of a fire.

“You can’t just fucking break in and steal shit!” Ian fumed.

The low growling part of Mickey’s brain started to grow loud. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the sight of Ian’s pulse visibly pounding in the vein along his neck.

Ian’s eyes darted to Mickey's scabbed fists, and then to the ground, and Mickey shifted minutely so he could see what had caught Ian's eye on the floor. He could just see the barrel of the handgun where Mickey had shoved it carelessly under the bed the night before. Ian looked back up to glare at Mickey.

Mickey liked it, the intensity of the anger on Ian’s face, the way he didn’t seem frightened or uncomfortable around Mickey, like he expected Mickey to be _normal_ , to act like a person again, not just some echo of who Mickey had been Before. 

“For the love of—I’m taking the gun back to the store,” Ian said huffily, striding forward toward the bed. 

In a flash, Mickey blocked him, stepping in Ian’s way so Ian bumped into him.

“What the hell, man,” Ian griped. He shoved at Mickey’s shoulder.

In the center of his chest, Mickey’s heart was starting to pound, and to his mildly ambiguous disbelief, it wasn’t panic or fear. It felt almost like excitement. 

As Ian tried to step around him, Mickey blocked him again, and when Ian shoved at him again, Mickey knocked back, using his forearm to push Ian away. Ian came at him again, lowering his shoulder for leverage, but Mickey twisted and used Ian’s momentum to toss him backward. Ian was bigger and stronger by a huge margin, Mickey’s muscles and bones still knitting themselves back together from years of near-atrophy, but Mickey had surprise and tenacity on his side, and Ian’s eyes went wide with shock as Mickey knocked him off his feet and onto his back on the bed where he lay stunned like a turtle.

Before Ian could get to his feet again, Mickey jumped up after him, straddling his waist and holding Ian down with the entire weight of his body, knees pinning Ian’s shoulders down as best he could.

Momentarily trapped on the bed, Ian stared up at Mickey in wide-eyed wonder. He was breathing raggedly, almost as raggedly as Mickey. Mickey wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he let his body hang in suspended silence anyway, waiting. 

To Mickey’s eternal surprise, Ian barked out a laugh, his outraged face slowly morphing into begrudging amusement.

“You’re a scrappy little shit, aren’t you?” Ian muttered. He shrugged his shoulders as he pulled his arms free of where they were trapped beneath Mickey.

Striking out like a snake, Mickey grabbed Ian’s wrist and pinned it back on the bed. Ian struggled, squirming a little beneath him, and Mickey made a shocked grunting sound at the heat it sent through his body. Ian froze, staring intently at the obvious bulge in Mickey’s pants mere inches from his face.

For the first time, Mickey’s eyes met Ian’s for a hot, throbbing moment.

Instinct howled suddenly in the depths of his mind. He shut off everything but the sharp, animal need to follow that instinct, to let his body move without thinking, without trying to fight it.

He reared back, yanking his shirt over his head, kicking his pants off after in something like relief (the sensation of clothes on his body was still foreign, despite Mandy’s repeated lectures that Humans Wore Clothes, Mickey), and looking down expectantly at Ian.

Hesitating for the barest moment, and for a terrible horrifying moment Mickey thought Ian might not do anything after all, but then Ian seemed to make a decision. He stripped hurriedly out of his own clothes. Mickey noted that in his haste, he forgot to take his socks off. The nonverbal part of his brain curled in satisfaction at Ian’s frantic rush to get naked.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but Mickey jumped on him again, pushing him back, shocked and growing obsessed with how good it felt to have Ian’s bare skin against him, when for so long even the potential for touch had loomed like a threat.

Mickey was hard, too, and he remembered this, his mind could recall the rough, agitated tempo of adolescent sex from Before, he’d done this before, he was _remembering_ , the thought was almost as heady as the hesitant, eager, unconscious movements of Ian beneath him.

Ian was muttering something, but Mickey let the words go indistinct, twisting so their bodies lined up and Mickey could jerk his hips forward, gasping as his cock slid along Ian’s skin, drinking in the choked sound Ian made in response as he reached down to wrap a hand around his own dripping cock.

Everything grew hazy, the only sounds for a few moments their collective heavy breathing and Mickey’s occasional surprised whine and Ian’s muttered “oh god, _oh go_ d,” and so it took a second for Mickey to register why his face felt suddenly wet. It wasn’t sweat.

Even worse, Ian seemed to recognize it too, loosening the way his one arm was wrapped tightly around Mickey’s waist, slowing his speed as he stripped his cock.

“Hey,” Ian murmured, his voice impossibly, unexpectedly tender, “you okay? It’s okay, hey, Mickey, shit maybe we shouldn't—” and it hurt, Mickey didn’t know why Ian's concern and growing guilt made his chest hurt so much, but it did, and it also made him angry, fucking furious, at the distraction of tears when all he wanted was to chase the cleansing mindlessness of coming.

Even though he wasn’t looking Ian in the eye, he could still feel the way Ian’s heated gaze was clouding, growing worried and hesitant, and that only made his chest hurt worse.

He shoved Ian’s hand away from where it was creeping up to cup his jaw, pinning Ian’s wrist into the mattress again with a grunt, rutting against the groove in Ian’s hip, determinedly chasing his own orgasm, letting his focus narrow to nothing but the rising feeling of heat and friction in his groin.

He came with a jagged groan wrenched from his chest. The feeling was thick with familiarity. He remembered this. This was something he knew. Distantly, he thought he heard Ian finishing, felt the joined wetness of both their climaxes on the sheets, but his vision was hazy. Without thinking, he collapsed, an arm and leg sprawled across Ian’s chest with a level of carelessness he was starting to recognize as shocking.

Beside him, Ian was staring fixedly at the ceiling. Mickey let himself stare at his neck and shoulders, still pushed closely enough that he was pressed all along Ian’s side. 

“Um.” Ian sounded hoarse. He swallowed. Mickey couldn’t take his eyes away from the long, vulnerable line of Ian’s throat as his Adam’s apple worked. “That was. Well. Good talk.” 

There was another beat of silence as they caught their breath.

“I’m still taking the goddamn gun back, you know,” Ian said stubbornly.

Mickey felt a corner of his lip quirk, and it was such an odd, unfamiliar sensation that it took him a beat to realize what it was. To remember what it was, almost. A smile.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus begins another multichapter AU! Despite the heavy tags, I'm excited to share this fic with you all - I hope you'll stick with it as the plot and characterizations continue to unfold. I think it might surprise you. Please let me know if I have forgotten any tags or trigger warnings as we get going! Tags and ratings will change.
> 
> Posting schedule: Mondays.
> 
> Tumblaaaaaaa: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: references to past child abuse/neglect.

***

**June**

***

Ian was being a coward. He knew he was being a coward. But knowing he was being a coward wasn’t helping him stop _being_ a coward and—.

It was a vicious cycle, basically.

It had been two weeks since he’d left the Milkovich house, completely flustered and with Kash’s gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans, and he hadn’t been back since.

Kash had been nonplussed when Ian placed the gun on the counter in front of him at the store.

“Hey, where’d this come from?” Kash looked up toward the surveillance cameras, then back at Ian, putting the gun quickly under the counter, out of sight of the camera. “You know you didn’t have to get a new one. Linda’s going to check the registration number and know it’s a replacement anyway—”

“It’s the same one,” Ian interrupted.

 He watched Kash’s face cloud over, and with a glance around the empty store, he reached over and laid a hand on Ian’s where it rested beside the gun.

“Ian, how did you—are you okay? You didn’t do anything…dangerous to get this back, did you?” Kash squeezed Ian’s hand gently, always so gentle.

A horrible, mean part of himself wondered if Kash was really worried about Ian being safe, or if he was more concerned that Linda would get suspicious of why Ian would be so invested in getting the gun back.

“No,” Ian said instead, trying for the smile that usually came so easily with Kash, even though today it felt weird on his mouth, “it’s all good.”

Kash hesitated, then his face split open in the pleased, slightly dopey smile that had caught Ian’s eye in the first place. “Okay,” he said softly. “Thanks, Ian.”

The rest of his shift at the store that day, and later when he went in the back and got a gratitude blowjob from Kash, and when he got back home that night and sat quietly during a rowdy dinner with his siblings, he kept playing Kash’s question over and over in his head.

Dangerous. No, he didn’t think it had been dangerous, going to demand the gun from Mickey. Replaying that afternoon, the way Mickey had tossed the gun on the bed afterward, silent as ever, still naked and watching Ian avidly—Ian was coming to realize that while Mickey was wild and unpredictable, he wasn’t actually a danger to Ian. That didn’t mean Ian wasn’t a danger to Mickey, though, in some amorphous, sinister way Ian couldn’t quite articulate even as it sat with thick, heavy guilt deep in the pit of his stomach.

So he hadn’t been back to the Milkovich house, not in two weeks, uneasily lying ot Mandy about _extra shifts at work sry_ and that was when the gossip levy appeared to break.

He was smoking on the porch before he had to leave for his shift at the store. A Channel 5 news truck went skidding by. He frowned. People usually didn’t give a shit what was happening in this part of the city, and they rarely wanted broadcast footage of it. Maybe some white college student forgot to transfer at Fullerton and got mugged once they ventured too far south on the Red Line.

Another news van followed the first a few minutes later.

He took the last drag of his cigarette and ground it under his heel. The vans had been headed in along the route he usually took to the store anyway, so he started walking.

He ran into Lip along the way, coming out of Karen Jackson’s house, redoing his belt.

“Nice,” Ian said, eyeing his brother’s attempt to re-dress on the go.

“A man has needs, Ian,” Lip said breezily. “You see those news vans going by earlier?”

“Yeah, what the hell’s going on?”

Lip smiled the smile of someone with brand new gossip. “Somebody leaked the name of the boy in the box. Karen’s mom’s nurse friend, she just called. The staff at Northwestern’s having kittens apparently, someone’s in big fucking trouble.”

“What are you talking about?” Ian asked, mystified.

Lip gave him a gentle shove as they settled into step together, heading down the block. “How can you not—it’s like you intentionally avoid all local news. You work at a corner store, man, you _sell newspapers_.”

Ian made a circular motion with his hand, all: _wrap it up asshole_.

Lip laughed at Ian’s flat expression, pleased as always to be annoying. “It’s Mickey Milkovich, man,” he said. “They found that kid in Indiana in April, and then Mickey Milkovich turned up at the hospital—it was the same kid, dude.” Lip made jazz hands. “Everyone wants to know what happened to him, now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Why does anyone care?” Ian asked sullenly. He felt strangely possessive of Mickey, of Mandy and her family too, of their story.

“Everybody wants to know the story of the boy in the box,” Lip said prosaically.

The name made Ian flinch. He felt an immediate visceral hatred for the moniker.

At Ian’s expression, Lip explained, “That’s what everyone was calling him, because the police were still trying to identify him, and the news people can’t print the name of a minor anyway.”

They were at the corner of the block the Milkovich house was on and they both stopped, surveying the scene from a distance. The news vans bracketed the street and people were milling around, mostly from the neighborhood, inquisitive and gossiping quietly to each other in groups. It didn’t seem like a total frenzy, not yet anyway, for which Ian breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Ian and Lip watched in silence for a moment. Beside him, Lip was humming thoughtfully, hands stuffed in the pockets of his cutoff shorts. “Man,” he said after awhile, “like, _fuck,_ though. How do you come back from that they say happened to him?”

“What do you mean?” Ian asked, frowning.

Lip shrugged, shaking his head. “I mean, shit like that happens to you, you’re pretty much fucked for life, you know?”

Reflexively, Ian made a _pfft_ sound, because that sounded like classic superlative Lip bullshit.

He thought of Mickey, so still and careful and quiet, but still alive and vibrant enough to throw Ian on the bed, look him in the eye, if only for a split second.

“So if that happened to you, you’d just…what,” Ian said slowly. “Just say fuck it? It’s all over?” Ian knew he sounded accusatory. He also knew Lip wasn’t trying to piss him off on purpose. Lip had no idea how deep into this Ian was.

“I don’t know,” Lip said, shrugging again. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his shirts, lighting one. He held a hand over his head to shade his eyes, squinting at the dozen or so people assembled on the sidewalk in front of the Milkovich house.

“Maybe, I guess,” Lip said after a pause. “I just don’t see how you’d be able to move on though, be normal, be a _person_ again.”

Ian bit back a retort, settling on an irritated frown. But then, Lip wasn’t wrong, maybe. It made Ian feel skittery and nervous to contemplate.

“I have to get to work,” he said abruptly, making Lip looked at him in surprise.

“Alright, man. Whatever,” he said, waving Ian away. “Oh, Fiona said we need bread, and maybe milk—you think you can get your booty call to hook us up?”

“He’s not a booty call,” Ian muttered, nevertheless filing the information into the back of his head, to see if he could wheedle the food out of Kash later on.

It shouldn’t be too hard; Kash was always magnanimous after he came.

His shift was a blur. Even with Kash chatting happily beside him, and the relatively busy afternoon crowd coming in and out of the store, Ian felt miles away.

Mickey didn’t seem vulnerable to Ian. He seemed kind of scary to Ian, even skinny and wild-eyed as he was. But thinking of the people waiting outside the Milkovich house, the news vans, it made Ian itch to leave in the middle of his shift and run over there and make sure Mickey was okay.

On his break, he texted Mandy, _Saw the news trucks, looks like people know now. U ok?_

Mandy responded twenty minutes later, _Captain’s Log, Day 37: things are really shitty right now. morale is low. so are rations._

Ian smirked. _I’ll bring over snacks after work._

It felt good to have a plan of action. Ian hated sitting idle. And while he was still unsure how he felt about what had happened between Mickey and him, he also felt like shit for abandoning Mandy. He thought of her, trapped in the house with her great big bully of a dad and her silent, furious, terrified brother, and acknowledged that he might be the world’s worst best friend.

When traffic at the store slowed down, Ian went in back with Kash and fucked him up against a few boxes of beer in the cooler. Just a few weeks ago Ian had been lost on a sea of disbelief that he was allowed to do this, at the impossibly grownup feeling of _fucking his boyfriend_ in the back cooler _at work_.

Now, he found himself listening with impatience to Kash’s groans and gasps, wishing he would just fucking hurry up and come already so Ian wouldn’t feel guilty about taking home a couple bags of free food.

Afterward, Kash watched him carefully as Ian bustled around the store, putting a loaf of bread and a carton of eggs in the paper bag on his hip, some milk for Liam, cereal for the other kids, then swinging around to grab some Doritos for Mandy. When Ian came back to the register he made a token move for his wallet, but Kash went for his wrist, shaking his head.

“It’s on me,” Kash said, like he always did when Ian took food on the sly. He rubbed his thumb against the knobby bone on the side of Ian’s wrist. “Everything okay? You seemed kind of…distracted, back there.” He gestured toward the cooler with his chin, ducking his chin bashfully. How a forty-year-old married guy could pull off bashful, Ian would never understand.

_I cheated on you with the kid down the street they found holed up like an animal in Indiana for three years._

Ian blinked, startled at himself, at the words in his head. He made himself smile, big and guileless and toothy, the way he knew Kash liked.

“I got into a fight with Lip,” he lied, making a show of rolling his eyes at the silent indignities suffered by siblings everywhere, “he’s being an asshole.”

Kash nodded sympathetically, his eyes going soft. “Go easy on the guy,” he said, “your brother just cares about you.”

It was way too dad-like of a response for Ian’s taste, but he let Kash press a gentle kiss to his lips anyway before Ian high-tailed it out of there.

The early evening light was already going golden when Ian swung down Mandy’s street. The street was mostly empty of the earlier gossiping crowds. Only one news vans had stuck around and Ian could see the camera guys chilling against the bumper, looking bored.

He walked up the front steps, hesitating only a moment before he knocked on the screen door, realizing belatedly he should’ve texted Mandy first so she could meet him on the porch when Terry himself threw open the front door.

He looked red-faced and ready to wallop on any lingering prying reporters, and seemed surprised to see a skinny redheaded teenager on his front porch.

“The fuck you want?” he growled.

Ian swallowed, bombing at the last second, trying to remember his lines. He wanted to check on Mickey—no, he meant Mandy, Mr. Milkovich wasn’t supposed to know that Ian had ever met Mickey, not since he came home—

Terry crossed his arms, seeming amused by Ian’s obvious panic. “What, you come to rubberneck like the rest of these bastards?” He stepped close enough that he physically loomed over Ian’s head, swaying slightly. He was obviously hammered.

“No, I came to see Mandy—I’m a friend of hers, from school—” Ian stammered, and Terry cut him off with a snort.

“Sure. _Friend_. I bet you are.” Ian didn’t like the leer on Terry’s face, but then, he’d never liked Terry. He was a bully, and not even a sneaky, manipulative bully like Frank. He’d always reminded Ian of a big angry bear.

Terry looked ready to bluster one some more but then Mandy appeared, slipping under Terry’s arm where it was propped against the doorframe.

“Ian!” she said, grabbing his sleeve. “I didn’t know what time your shift ended.” She looked up at her dad appealingly. “Dad, this is my boyfriend, Ian. I thought maybe he could meet Mickey, now that everything…” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the remaining news van down the block.

There was a pregnant moment as Terry considered, and Ian tried by sheer force of will not to panic-sweat through his shirt.

Terry stepped back with an irritated sigh. “Make it quick,” he said, reaching to shut the front door behind Ian. “I don’t want him riling up your brother, he’s been through enough today.”

Behind Terry’s back, Mandy gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes. Even Ian had to bite his lip not to smirk at the unexpected hilarity of watching Terry play Overprotective Father Figure.

“I can’t stay too long anyway, I’ve got to get this food to the fridge at home,” Ian said, lifting up the bag of groceries like an offering. Terry made a dismissive noise and turned away, heading back toward the living room where a few of Mandy’s brothers were sacked out on the couch.

Ian nodded at the bag of chips, raising his eyebrows at Mandy. “Got you some Doritos, too.”

“You’re my favorite gay boyfriend,” Mandy said under her breath, leading him into the room at the back of the house.

Mickey was sitting curled in the corner between his bed and his dresser. He looked up sharply when Ian and Mandy came in, Mandy closing the door behind them.

Ian tried not to blush, knew it was a losing battle, attempted to convey _sorry for getting off with you and then disappearing for two weeks like a dickhead_ with his eyes. He didn’t know how successful he was.

Mickey rose to his feet, moving so his back was against the wall, staring stonily at Ian’s chest.

“Me and Mickey were just chilling, you know how we do,” Mandy said, flopping onto the bed. She indicated a pile of magazines on her feet, and a few picture books with the distinctive Chicago Public Library stamp farther down near the foot of the bed.

Ian joined her on the bed, waving at Mickey, feeling like a socially awkward dipshit. “Hey, how’s it going,” he said.

Mickey didn’t respond, obviously, but Ian was sure he saw his eyebrow quirk. It was like Mickey’s face was battling with itself sometimes, trying to remain blank despite its natural expressiveness.

He set the bag of groceries on the ground, joining Mandy on the bed, and Mandy reached immediately for the chips, popping the bag open and grabbing a handful.

“Shit’s been pretty crazy around here today,” Mandy said, swallowing her mouthful of Doritos. She held out the bag toward Mickey, who eyed it suspiciously. Mandy didn’t rush him, just kept the bag tilted toward him while she kept talking to Ian. “All these people keep calling and knocking on the door. Dad said if we just ignored them, they’d lose interest and leave us alone.” She gave Ian a sour look, conveying what she thought of that strategy.

“Lip said he heard about it all from Karen, like her mom’s friend from the hospital knew or something,” Ian offered. Beside them, Mickey was inching closer to the chips. Ian couldn’t help but glance back, charting Mickey’s stilted approach. Mandy seemed used to it, focusing on Ian.

She sighed. “Sounds about right, fucking busybodies. The police called, all sorry that the story leaked, but whatever, right? It was bound to happen. People aren’t stupid.” She considered. “Well, not _that_ stupid. Not all of them.”

By that point, Mickey had sidled his way to Mandy’s side and was reaching inside the bag cautiously, like he expected Mandy to yank it away. In a flash of movement, he grabbed a handful of chips and shoved them into his mouth, chewing rapidly. He let out a sharp, pleasured sound that made Ian flush and Mandy burst out in a laugh.

Mickey startled a little, at his own noise and then the laughter.

“Good as shit, right?” Mandy said, still chuckling at him. “You used to love Doritos, Mom would say—well, we were afraid you’d actually turn orange.” Ian watched her, wondering at the sudden pivot away from talking about Mrs. Milkovich. “Like the little people in Willy Wonka? What were they called?” She looked at Mickey like she was waiting for him to chime in, and when he didn’t, she shrugged. She shook the bag in Mickey’s direction. “Anyway. Have some more chips. We should all enjoy the spoils of Ian’s torrid affair.”

“Shut it,” Ian said, shaking his head, feeling awkward talking about Kash around Mickey, now.

They watched Mickey eat Doritos for a while. It was kind of mesmerizing, the way his face crinkled in obvious bliss, making Mandy laugh occasionally. Even Ian snorted once or twice, making Mickey slide a sharp look his way, an obvious _hey, fuck you_ , which only made Ian laugh outright.

Mickey chewed with his mouth closed, Ian noted in surprise, then felt guilty for that surprise, that he expected Mickey to eat like an animal.

After they decimated most of the bag, Mandy sprawled out on the bed. “This sucks,” she said. “It’s like we’re trapped in some kind of end-of-days bunker.”

Ian settled in next to her, watching how Mickey licked his fingers fastidiously, then perched, hesitant, on the extreme far corner of the bed. His gaze settled on Ian’s shoulder, and Ian relaxed a little at the familiarity.

“My dad was all about bringing him home as soon as possible,” Mandy said dryly into the silence, her voice low enough to stay within the room. “But somehow, keeping him trapped in the house like a crazy ex-wife in a Victorian novel wasn’t the foolproof plan he thought it was.” She heaved a sigh that sounded like a groan. “Who knew, right?”

“Someone’s getting ahead on their summer reading,” Ian said with a smile.

Mandy kicked at his knee lightly. “Whatever, Mr. Rochester is hot. You should give ja-nay-ray a chance.”

Ian paused, then huffed out a laugh. “Do you mean Jane Eyre?”

“My way is better,” Mandy said haughtily, waving a hand.

“You’re right, it is,” Ian said. It felt good to be sitting next to Mandy again, falling into the easy familiarity of their back-and-forth. Sometimes he forgot how easy it was to be around Mandy, how calming, until he was back in her presence, soaking it up like a flower.

He looked up, still smiling, and caught Mickey watching them carefully, or at least staring intently at the space between their shoulders.

“How have you been doing?” he asked Mickey. Mickey went still, like he was surprised at the question, at being talked to directly.

Mandy waited a beat, picking up a magazine, then answered for her brother. “He’s been antsy, I think. All the phone calls and people at the doors, and our dad’s been on the warpath.” She flipped a page in the magazine with a _swish_. “Hasn’t torn the shit out of his bedroom in a few weeks though, so that’s a win.”

Ian wondered if Mickey was still sneaking out at night, or in the early morning, or whenever he had managed to steal Kash’s gun in the first place.

He was struck by a sudden wave of unexpected tenderness, looking at Mickey practically hovering on the edge of the bed, skinny shoulders jutting against the thin material of his T-shirt, listening quietly to Ian and Mandy talk.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” Ian said, ostensibly to Mandy, but with his eyes on Mickey.

Mandy, who was still looking at her magazine, waved off his apology easily. “Don’t worry about it, you’ve been busy.”

“I’ll be around more from now on, I promise,” Ian said, still looking at Mickey.

Mandy reached over and put her hand on Ian’s wrist, squeezing gently. “I think that’d be really great,” she said quietly.

It was quick, almost too quick too catch if you weren’t watching for it, but Ian was, so he saw when Mickey’s eyes darted up and made contact with his own, just for a moment, then slipped back away. It made Ian’s heart speed up, a sudden burst in his chest.

At the foot of the bed, Mickey’s shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit. Ian needed to get home, but let himself settle into the bed for just a little bit longer, watching Mickey watch Ian’s shoulder while Mandy read out loud from the magazine in her lap.

 

***

 

The entire Milkovich house was still on edge, growing tenser the longer the entire family was trapped in the house. Mickey felt like he was feeding off it, ingesting it against his will.

Since the first reporter had knocked on the front door, Terry had more or less called a lock-down. Iggy and the rest of Mickey’s brothers bitched at first, but fell silent when Terry unleashed some of his wrath. He took the phone off the hook a few hours in, after the fifth call for an interview, but not before the people from the hospital started calling again.

Terry had started drinking early the day the news had broken about Mickey, but he managed to keep his temper with the doctor on the phone. “Now isn’t the best time,” he said stiffly, glancing toward the front windows where the groups of neighbors huddled on the sidewalk were just visible. “I don’t think we’ll be able to make the appointment today.”

As the person on the other end of the phone spoke, Mickey watched how Terry’s eyes squeezed shut, his voice going rough, the leash on his anger going almost visibly taught. “I know counseling is important but it’s too soon.” He turned so his back was turned to where Mickey was sitting hunched at the kitchen table, staring blankly down at the mug of hot chocolate Mandy had set in front of him. Terry lowed his voice. “He’s not ready. It’s too soon.”

Mickey had balked internally at the idea of a counselor ever since it had first come up at the hospital nearly two months ago, but he was shocked (or as shocked as he could get, with the strange, muted way his emotions transmitted themselves these days) that Terry seemed aware of this. That he put his foot down and told the doctor calling from the hospital to back off, that they’d deal with the shrink nonsense later.

And most surprising of all, it was Terry who kept refusing to entertain any of the telephone offers for interviews ( _paid_ interviews, Iggy had muttered to Colin in wonderment, people wanted to _pay_ to hear Mickey’s story, could he believe that shit, because Iggy couldn’t), and told the news people at the front door to get the fuck off his lawn before he shot them dead.

To distract himself from the anxiety at the house, Mickey hoarded Ian’s visits like a dragon guarding his cave.

True to his word, Ian came back to the house nearly every day after he’d brought the Doritos. It felt like he was apologizing, but Mickey didn’t trust his ability to understand why people did things anymore, so he just took it for an unexpected string of good luck.

Mickey mostly kept his distance when Ian visited, retreating to the edge of the bed or the safe corner between his bed and dresser, unwilling to spook Ian when the hurried, heated encounter over the gun weeks had driven Ian off.

It was exhausting, relearning how people interacted, how they talked to each other, the rules and rhythms of it all. But Mickey was willing to do it if it meant more time with Ian, to sit listening to Mandy and Ian talk and joke and bicker, soaking in the sounds of their voices, especially Ian’s, surreptitiously memorizing the freckles and tone of his skin, his big hands, his easy, goofy smile.

He liked how Ian made a point to ask Mickey how he was doing, and to ask Mickey questions directly rather than having Mandy translate, the way his dad and brothers had gotten in the habit of doing.

Sometimes he liked to imagine what it be like if, when Ian looked at him and said, “Hey man, how’s it going?”, Mickey could smile and reply, “Not bad, same old, you know?” For now, he just said it silently, in his head, and waited for the day when it might feel normal to say it in response.

It was hard to tell how much time had passed (although marking the days was getting easier the more Ian came to visit) but Mickey thought maybe a week or so after the news people stopped calling, his dad stepped into his room without preamble and announced Mickey was going in for therapy.

Mandy froze, mouth still half-open from her uninterrupted monologue about a movie she’d seen with Ian last year. She looked up at Terry in shock, then at Mickey, who stared at their dad’s feet, feeling expectedly betrayed. He'd been tentatively hopeful that Terry would follow through on his claims that Mickey wasn't ready for counseling yet.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Terry said gruffly to the both of them, “it’s not my idea. We just need the social work people to get off our asses for a while.”

Mickey still didn't like looking Mandy in the eye but he did glance at her feet on the bed, and she shrugged, their own version of a conversation.

“Come on, Mick, don’t you want to get out of the house for a bit?” Terry’s voice turned lightly cajoling, which was a weird sound on him. Hi voice was meant to yell and threaten, not to coax. Hesitantly, Mickey stood, inching out of the room. Terry nodded, satisfied.

In the living room, Iggy and Colin and Joey looked up from the TV like a three-headed monster, watching Terry leave the bedroom with Mickey at his heels.

“We’re going out,” Terry said, the finality in his voice ringing. He gestured at Mickey, and graciously didn’t acknowledge how Mickey flinched and edged away from the potential of touch. “Just me and Mick.” He smiled at Mickey, like they were sharing a secret.

He gestured for Mickey to follow and started for the door. “Mandy, make sure there’s some dinner ready when we get home,” he commanded, grabbing the car keys from the side table.

“Sure,” Mandy said uncertainly. “Um. Bye, Mickey. Have a…I mean, good luck.” She waved at Mickey, who hesitated, looking toward her, but all she did was shrug again. They both seemed equally reluctant to disobey their dad outright.

Iggy narrowed his eyes at Mickey as he passed, but Mickey tried to ignore him, letting Terry lead him outside into the summer sunlight, toward the the car. He remembered at the last second he should probably act more shocked, like this was actually the first time he’d left the house since he’d come home, his secret after hours escapes notwithstanding.

He intentionally winced, squinting up at the sun.

“Come on, while we’re young,” Terry said impatiently. He held the door to the Milkovich town car open for his son anyway in an oddly gallant gesture.

Being alone with his dad on the drive made Mickey freeze up, instantly tense with nerves. The only comfort was how equally uncomfortable Terry seemed at being alone with Mickey.

“You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to,” Terry said, for the third or fourth time since they’d gotten in the car. Mickey squeezed one fist in the palm of his other hand, staring at the windshield, thinking idly that his dad seemed to keep forgetting that Mickey hadn’t said anything to anyone yet, not one word, making it doubly unlikely he would open up like a spring to some stranger at the hospital.

They stopped at a light, and Terry tapped impatiently at the steering wheel. “I mean, you gotta give them something—you know how these doctor types are, they want to feel like they’re important. But they just need to see you’re okay, so you just get in there, get out, so we can get on with our lives, you know?”

He could feel his dad looking at him, the strength of his stare against the side of his head, and Mickey made himself nod, the movement small, but an obvious acknowledgment.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Terry’s mouth fall open. It took him a second to realize it was probably the first time he’d reacted directly to anything his dad had said since he’d come home.

Terry swallowed, nodding a little himself. “Yeah, you know,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re still in there. You know.” He turned away from Mickey, both his hands circling tight around the steering wheel.

He let Mickey sit in silence for the rest of the car ride.

They parked and went inside, every shadow and noise in the echo-y parking garage making Mickey jerk.

He felt increasingly jumpy, sure a thousand eyes were on his back, the bright wide-open space of the hospital’s atrium making his heart race. His mind started to go blank, the way it always would lately when he would sneak out at night and in the mornings, the openness making him go numb. In this moment he welcomed it, the ease of slipping away for a while.

He followed his dad blindly up some stairs, into a room, sitting at a low table, an array of toys for toddlers spread across the top (and that almost made Mickey jerk back to reality again, because he wasn’t a _little kid_ , he didn’t need some multicolored blocks to _soothe him_ , but he resisted, remaining stubbornly removed), and there was a stranger speaking softly to him while his dad stood farther in the corner, arguing with two doctors who kept their voices low the louder his dad got, and Mickey drifted, leaving his body for a while, not thinking of anything at all at all.

He blinked, and they were back in the car. They were driving back from the hospital already. Mickey felt instant relief that it was over, but beside him his dad seemed to be winding himself up.

“Goddamnit, Mick,” Terry burst out roughly, making Mickey jerk in surprise, and making Terry swear like some terrible feedback loop. “Goddamnit. You gotta snap out of this. You can’t just—you have to _wake up_.”

Mickey considered nodding again, like he had earlier, the urge to please his dad rising up like an echo, but Terry hit the steering wheel hard with both hands. Mickey jerked, on edge from his dad's sudden changeability. If Mickey were able, he'd argue that it was Terry himself who said Mickey didn't have to tell them anything he didn't want to. Which in Mickey's case, was everything. Since he couldn't, he went completely still and silent and wished desperately for the car ride to be over so he could be back in his room, curled up in the corner between his bed and dresser again.

The ride back was endless. Terry leapt out of the car as soon as he slammed it in park, leaving Mickey to find his way back inside.

“I need some fucking air,” Terry said nonsensically as he barreled into the house, Mickey trailing along behind him. Mandy and Iggy and Colin on the couch all jumped to their feet, looking uncertain. “I can’t be around this fucking shit, not right now.” He whirled around, like he expected one of his children to fight him on it. None of them did, Mandy and Mickey’s brothers standing wide-eyed and alert, except Mickey, who slunk over to the wall, leaning against it, curving his shoulders in so he felt smaller.

Terry looked at him then. For a moment his eyes were pained. It was a split-second expression, and Mickey thought maybe he’d imagined it, or wished it to be so, because the next second Terry was crashing back out of the house again. “I’ll be at the Alibi,” he said roughly over his shoulder. “Don’t bother me unless someone’s dead.”

The quiet rang in his wake. Colin and Iggy looked at each other. “Guess that therapy shit isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Colin muttered, and Iggy punched him in the shoulder.

“Let’s go get fucked up,” Iggy said on a sigh. They walked past Mickey to the front door, neither glancing in his direction, like Mickey didn’t exist, and for the first time that felt weird.

Mickey wondered, vaguely, when he stopped wanting his family to treat him like a ghost.

Mandy approached him cautiously, stopping a good foot or two away. “Man, what a shit show,” she said softly. She reached out, like she was about to touch Mickey’s arm, but when he visibly stiffened she drew back. “Well. You hungry? I was going to be make pasta.”

He wanted to shake his head like he’d done for Terry in the car, the simple response that had seemed to be so satisfying for his dad, but he felt too drained now to even attempt it.

Mandy ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Hey,” she said suddenly. “I know you’ve already had your officially sanctioned outside-the-house-adventure, but you want to get out of here again?”

It felt like he was breaking some kind of unspoken rule, going outside into the neighborhood again, but Terry was gone, they were alone in the house, Mickey wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be doing at the moment, and he felt too off-kilter to do much but follow Mandy.

He thought he felt eyes on him as they walked from the windows of the houses and the people they passed, but Mandy kept up a speedy clip and chattered easily to Mickey at her side the whole way until it grew easier to pretend like it was just a normal day, and they were two normal kids, not a pair of relatively notorious neighborhood celebrities.

As they got closer, he realized he recognized the empty lot, with the naked skeletons of four abandoned factory buildings in a ring, a large smokestack structure further in the back. 

One building was mostly destroyed, black ash and smoke stains marking the one remaining cement wall.

He’d been here, before. He knew this place.

“You recognize something?” Mandy said, looking at him shrewdly. Mickey got the sense she had brought him here on purpose.

When he very carefully didn’t react, she shrugged and pushed open the half-broken door to one of the remaining buildings with her hip. Mickey followed her in and they trudged up the stairs, both winded by the time they got to the roof.

“Dad says the city’s always talking about tearing these things down, but I guess no one bought the property yet,” Mandy said idly. “He said it’s just a magnet for thieves and vagrants, which is kind of funny, right? Dad, saying stuff like that.”

She huffed out a laugh, and Mickey watched her do it as she wandered to the edge of the roof to look over. The draw of the view was too strong and soon he joined her, looking out over their neighborhood.

Mandy was silent for a lot longer than she usually was as stood beside him. Mickey exhaled deeply, but silently. He felt like he could stare out from the roof forever.

“You should just fucking scream,” Mandy said suddenly. She jerked her elbow, stopping short of jabbing him in the ribs, grinning teasingly.

Mickey gave her elbow a withering stare. If nothing else, the mantle of sibling exasperation had been startlingly easy to slip back into.

“I know you don’t really like talking a lot yet, so why not just—” She threw her arms out suddenly, making Mickey skitter back. Mandy stepped up to the curb of the roof, arms held aloft, like she was ready to take a swan dive off the edge.

He had a split second of indecision, of wondering whether that’s what she was going to do. 

But then she opened her mouth and let forth a scream, high and sharp, starting off with a recognizable horror movie “ah!” that soon morphed into a guttural, strangled yell that went on, and on, and on.

Even Mickey could appreciate that it was a pretty impressive display, all while he threw his hands over his ears to muffle the painful intensity of the sound.

The scream cut off as abruptly as it started. A serene smile spread across her face. She stepped back from the ledge and turned to Mickey, still smiling.

Mickey felt his eyebrows rise high, because _holy shit_.

“Man, that felt _great_ ,” she said through her grin. She breathed in deeply, her chest rising and falling. Her grin slipped slowly away, her eyes going thoughtful. “I love doing that.” She looked at him. “Now you go.”

Mickey stood still, his heartbeat starting to rabbit, uncertain what she exactly she wanted from him.

The thought of making that kind of noise filled him with complete and total panic.

She seemed to reconsider, fiddling with a loose seam at the bottom of her tank top. “Or I mean, think about it, at least. Like, I know you’re still getting used to the whole,” she coughed uncomfortably, “ _talking_ …thing, but you know, maybe this could be a start.”

They stood at the edge, considering the long drop to the ground together, and then Mandy slapped her hands together. “Well, I’m hungry. Let’s go eat that pasta ourselves, I bet Dad isn’t coming home from the bar until late.” She looked at Mickey slyly. “You want to say hi to Ian at work on the way home? Bet he’d be impressed you’re all up and out of the house.”

Mickey didn’t feel like he made an expression, but his careful stillness must have been its own tell, and Mandy cackled. “Come on, loser. Let’s go.”

They veered a few blocks over on their way home to pass the corner store. Distantly, Mickey realized that he recognized it, that it was familiar. He felt a throb on his knuckles in cuts that had long scabbed over, a sudden phantom weight of a gun in his hand.

He knew this place. He knew this store. He’d been here.

He looked in the window as Mandy stepped up to pound on the glass door, waving and yelling, “Ian! Iaaaaaan!”

Inside, Mickey saw Ian at the counter. Ian jumped at the sudden sound, then grinned and waved back, rolling his eyes. Mickey even felt a tug at the corner of his own mouth, like he wanted to smile in response too. Which was weird. But nice, too. Somehow.

Behind Ian in the store stood a taller, dark-skinned man. He looked older, almost Terry’s age. He put a hand on Ian’s shoulder, and Mickey felt his eyes narrow. 

That must be Kash, his mind told him, the Kash that Ian and Mickey joked about occasionally. _Kash_ , his mind hissed.

Mandy stepped away from the door. “Well, he looks busy.” She made a face at Mickey. “Plus, I don’t really want to be around that old weirdo. Don’t tell Ian, but I think Kash is creepy.”

As they walked back to the Milkovich house, Mickey couldn’t help but silently, and vehemently, agree.

 

***

 

Ian was glad he was going over to the Milkovich house more often. He didn’t like running into Terry, and the older Milkovich brothers were a bunch of hyenas, in Ian’s opinion, but it made him feel good, deep in his chest, that Mandy could depend on him, that he was keeping his unspoken promise to Mickey that he wouldn’t disappear again.

He liked being someone other people could rely on, away from his Gallagher identity as Quiet Middle Child. He didn’t want to share the strange, quiet world he inhabited with Mandy and Mickey with anyone else, not even Lip.

So when Lip asked him where he was going, he usually lied and said he was hanging out with Kash, or to a movie with Mandy. Never that he was going to sit in Mickey Milkovich’s barren bedroom and talk with Mandy for hours at a time about nothing in particular while Mickey sat curled up on the end of the bed close enough to Ian that their hips touched most of the time.

He was so wrapped up in that world at the Milkoviches’ that he didn’t even realize anything was brewing at home until it erupted, unexpectedly, one morning in the middle of the week.

Stumbling downstairs, he nodded at Fiona where she stood at the oven making eggs with one hand and holding Liam on her hip with the other. He rubbed vaguely at Liam’s warm, fuzzy head.

“Morning, sunshine!” Fiona chirped, always an annoying morning person.

“Eeeeen,” Liam said solemnly, his baby-version of Ian’s name.

He mumbled nonsense in response and went for the cereal, then the toward the coffeemaker, taking the last of the batch.

His mind was on the Milkovich house. He thought of seeing Mandy and Mickey outside the store the other day. He had been shocked to see Mickey outside the house, but he'd also felt strangely proud, that Mickey wasn't trapped in the cage of the his house anymore. Ian wondered if they could go somewhere together today. He worked until close, but maybe after they could go to the broken-down playground near the middle school, or the baseball diamonds. He’d text Mandy after breakfast and see what she thought.

He was so caught up in his planning that he didn’t notice he was being watched until he looked up, blearily, and saw Lip eyeing him sharply from his spot at a stool on the other side of the kitchen counter.

Ian nodded his chin in greeting, starting to feel uneasy. He saw Lip’s eyes narrow slightly.

Lip waited until Ian poured the milk for his cereal and got a spoon before he went in for the kill.

“So you been spending a lot of time with Mandy, huh?” Lip said flatly.

“She’s my best friend,” Ian said, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“But you guys aren’t dating or whatever,” Lip clarified, somewhat pointlessly. Ian heard the softly judgmental tone under Lip’s words, and immediately started to tense. Fiona was right there, carefully listening to every word being said. If Lip wanted to have another talk about How Did Ian Really Know He Was Gay, he knew better than to fucking have it out in the kitchen in front of god and Liam and everybody.

He shuffled across the kitchen to the table with his breakfast. “Yeah?” He dug a spoon into his cereal. “So?”

“So you still going to try and act like you haven’t been hanging out with Mr. Boy In The Box every time you’ve been over there?”

The words felt like gunshots in the previously warm, easy quiet of the kitchen.

Just like that, Ian was awake. “Don’t call him that,” he said, the words slipping out without warning. He cupped his coffee cup tight in his hands. “It’s just—it’s fucked up. That’s not his name.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ the hang up,” Lip drawled, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get caught on semantics.”

Ian wondered how long Lip had been waiting to pounce. Probably not that long, dude usually couldn’t wait to lord it over his siblings when he stumbled on some blackmail material.

“It’s just—it’s not a big deal, okay? Mandy’s been spending a lot of time with him, and I hang out with Mandy a lot, so I just kind of run into him sometimes when I see her.”

“I know that’s bullshit, come on.”

“How do you know anything, man, I’m not on fucking trial here.”

“Because I know you, you shithead,” Lip shot back, testily. “It’s never the whole truth with you. If you can hide an inch, you hide a fucking mile, and if you say you just sometimes see this kid every once and a while, I wouldn’t be surprised if you fucking dug him out of that hole in Indiana yourself.”

“Watch it, man,” Ian said, stepping forward to set his coffee roughly on the counter. He knew what Lip was doing, he’d fought with his brother enough to recognize his techniques, but the trick was not letting Lip make him lose his temper.

Even if all he really wanted to do was punch Lip right in the back of the head, the shit-stirrer.

“What’re you going to do, retreat into your rich inner life and completely block me out?” Lip made an obnoxious, wide-eyed face of _whoops_. “Wait, you already do that! All the time!”

At the counter, Fiona was following their heated argument with quiet confusion. Now she stopped to clarify, “You’ve been hanging out with Mickey Milkovich, Ian?” Her forehead pinched, the way it did when she was worried. “He’s the one…the kid in the news, isn’t he?”

Ian nodded, grudgingly, glaring daggers at Lip.

“So have you been lying to me for a few days, or is it weeks? Or months?” Lip demanded, unrelenting.

“It’s not a big deal! Sometimes I just see him when I’m hanging out with Mandy, relax,” Ian said, trying to ignore the tiny voice that said that that, too, was a lie, if he was being brutally honest. Something about Mickey drew him to the Milkovich house almost as strongly as his friendship with Mandy. Sometimes more strongly, and it was kind of scary, because Ian didn’t really understand _why_ , yet.

“I know what I’m doing,” Ian said.

“Oh, for the love of _god_ ,” Lip seethed, and Fiona looked at him, frown deepening.

“Why are you yelling at him?” she asked. She shifted Liam in her arms, nodding in Ian’s direction. “It’s—it’s a good thing, right? That Ian’s being a good friend to Mandy right now. And to her brother, _jesus_ , that poor kid.”

But Lip hardly spared her a glance, and Ian could grudgingly understand why. Because Fiona was interrupting a broadcast already in progress, another episode of Ian keeping something from Lip, of Lip flying off the handle when he felt like Ian was purposefully keeping secrets, go back and take it from the top, rinse, repeat.

Lip stood up to slam his dishes down in the sink. “Fuck, first with the magazines, and then the thing with K—” Lip bit off Kash’s name at the last possible second, clamping his mouth shut as Ian felt himself flush. At least Lip was stopping short of actually outing Ian to Fiona, which was a small victory. Lip swore instead, throwing himself back into his chair at the table. “All that stuff at the store,” he amended, “and now this? What else, Ian? You a fucking hit man for the mob?”

“What stuff at the store?” Fiona asked, even more worried now.

“I’ve been taking extra shifts in the mornings,” Ian lied smoothly, too smoothly for Lip’s tastes, apparently, because he shot to his feet, scowling fiercely.

“Jesus christ,” Lip muttered. He stomped out of the kitchen and out the backdoor, making sure to slam the door behind him—the drama queen, Ian thought sourly.

Ian stirred his bowl of soggy cereal, feeling guilty and defiant all at once.

“What is going on with you guys now?” Fiona asked in bafflement, shaking her head.

When Ian didn’t answer, Fiona watched him from the counter in silence, Liam mumbling sleepily against her shoulder.

After a beat or two she straightened, going to strap Liam into his high chair and shake out some Cheerios for him to snack on. She sat at the kitchen table beside Ian, still watching him carefully. Ian stared stubbornly at his cereal.

“Well,” she said. She brushed idly at a stray patch of spilled sugar on the tabletop. “I don’t know what Lip’s problem is, but all this stuff with the Milkoviches and Mandy and—and with Mickey.” She seemed reluctant to say his name, her voice lowering like they were being spied on by the secret police.

She reached out and set a gentle hand on Ian’s shoulder. He heaved out a sigh reactively, slouching in his seat under the gentle comfort of Fiona’s touch. “I trust you, Ian. To know what you’re doing.”

Fiona said the word “trust” like she was conjuring some irrevocable bond between them. She did that a lot, using trust as a bargaining tool, when she didn’t know how else to make the younger kids come to heal. It was her own big-sister equivalent of “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed,” and Ian always marveled at how she had stumbled upon it, the single most effective way to enforce at least temporary obedience.

Ian said, “Thanks, Fiona.” He wasn’t really sure what she was actually trusting him to do, or what he was thanking her for in return, but that was how they talked to each other a lot of the time, carefully and comfortingly nonspecific.

It was a nice escape, sometimes, from the vivid, confrontational tangle of being brothers with Lip.

As he went to clean his dishes listlessly, his phone chirped. It was a message from Linda, asking him if he could start his shift early. Ian frowned. Linda was a hardass but she was a dependable boss, and she hardly ever switched shifts or asked him to stretch his time beyond what he’d been scheduled.

When he got into the store fifteen minutes later, he could tell some kind of shit had gone down. Linda was on the phone, pacing, every step livid with carefully suppressed fury, which was actually not that unusual for Linda, so it was Kash sitting dejected behind the cash register that caught Ian’s eye. He was holding an ice pack to his face, and Ian could just see the outline of a deep, purpling bruise on his face.

The bell over the door announced his entrance and Linda jerked her head in his direction.

“I’m on hold with the police,” she told him as he walked inside. “I’m trying to figure out how to explain that the father of my children got the shit beaten out of him by some teenage thug.” She shot Kash a glare. “A pretty scrawny one, if the security footage is anything to go by.”

Kash looked up at Ian too, looking his token forlorn as always the perfect foil to Linda’s characteristic irritation. He gave Ian a sheepish smile.

“Shit,” Ian said. He stepped past Linda as she paced back and forth with her phone to her ear toward Kash where he sat drooping on a stool behind the counter.

“What the hell happened?” Ian asked, keeping his voice low so Linda wouldn’t hear.

“It was kind of a blur,” Kash admitted, waving the hand that wasn’t holding ice to his swollen face. “I didn’t even know the kid was in here until he was knocking me to the ground.”

“What’s the point of keeping you armed if you don’t have the balls to do anything about it?” Linda raged as she paced back and forth. “I swear to—yes, hello, I wanted to report an assault at my husband’s store.” Her tone changed to light and professional in a flash as she was presumably taken off hold on the other end.

“Are you okay?” Ian asked Kash quietly, wondering privately how fucking distracted you’d have to be not to notice someone sneaking up on you in your own store. Then he felt guilty, looking at Kash staring morosely at the cash register. Ian was supposed to be dating the guy, he didn’t know why he was suddenly so irritated with him all the time.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I feel like an idiot though. They didn't even steal anything, just beat me up and ran away.” Kash sighed, then looked at Linda to make sure her back was turned.“I’m not sure,” he said slowly, his voice going even lower than before, “but I think it was that Milkovich kid. The one they just found in the box in Indiana.”

“What?” Ian said breathlessly.

“The youngest boy, Mickey, right? The one who was kidnapped?” Kash gingerly readjusted the ice against his head. “I think it was him.”

Ian could hear his pulse pounding in his throat. “Are you sure?”

Kash nodded. “It’s just—I recognized the tattoos.” He waggled the fingers of his free hand. “Plus, he looks just like his dad, and that asshole has come in here to kick my ass often enough.” Kash glanced at Linda, who was on the phone with the police still, lecturing sternly. “I don’t think the cameras got his face though, I was stocking shelves so it all happened in the blind spot by the back aisle.”

Ian nodded. If there was one thing Kash and him knew, it was the exact placement of each blind spot of the security cameras Linda had installed in the store.

“I’m okay,” Kash assured him, because Ian realized he must look shocked. As Kash misinterpreted it as concern,  all Ian could do was nod absently.

Because instead of worrying about Kash, his actual _boyfriend_ , at the massive bruise on his face, Ian found himself suddenly _furious_ that Lip had been proven right. He’d spent his day feeling righteously indignant at Lip’s anger, at his implication that Ian was somehow in the wrong getting involved in the Milkovich family drama, and now Mickey had to go and fuck it up, attack Kash and make Ian look like a silly, naïve asshole trying to heal some broken kid with his own weird, intense affections.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath. He hated feeling like a sucker.

“I’m not going to tell Linda,” Kash said, again misinterpreting Ian’s reaction. “If what they’re printing in the papers is true—the kid’s already been through enough, why bring the cops into it.”

A small, ugly part of Ian’s heart resented how understanding Kash was being, almost fatherly. But then, he _was_ a father, Ian reminded himself sharply, even though he hated to remember it. Dude had two kids. It was stupid to let himself forget it.

“You’re friends with the sister, aren’t you?” Kash was saying, and when Ian nodded distractedly, he added, words hesitant, “Maybe…maybe you can ask her if she can keep him away from the store?”

Ian gave a start. “Um,” he said. It was all getting too hopelessly messy, that Kash saw him as some kind of conduit to Mickey, that Ian had fucked around with Mickey, that Ian was slowly seeing the rest of his life as a distraction from where he really wanted to be, which was with Mandy and Mickey (but mostly Mickey, his annoying brain corrected, mostly with him).

“Sure,” he made himself say. “I can talk to her.”

Kash gave him a wide, grateful smile, the kind that used to make Ian’s stomach feel all fluttery. “No problem,” Ian said, and after a glance at Linda’s turned back, he gave Kash’s knee a quick squeeze, feeling like he was following directions in a script.

Eventually the police came and Kash gave a statement, and Linda left when the cops did, after giving Kash a stern lecture about not being a pussy next time a teenager tried to rough him up.

“Maybe Ian can be your bodyguard,” she said snidely, then, to Ian, “Thanks for coming in early, I really appreciate it. I’ll make sure to get you the overtime,” as she swept out of the store.

Kash was clingy for the rest of Ian’s shift, trailing behind him as Ian restocked shelves and rang up customers. It was all Ian could do not to shake him off. He kept reminding himself that it wasn’t Kash he was mad at. It was Mandy’s fucking sneaky, reckless brother.

He wanted to leave the store and go directly to the Milkovich house, but then he thought of Mickey sneaking off to wander the neighborhood, start mysterious fires, beat the hell out of unsuspecting storeowners, _do_ whatever the hell else it was he _did_ , the sneaky little shit, and he started hatching a plan.

If Mickey thought he could stalk the shadows of the day or night or whatever, Ian would just have to catch him at his own game.

 

***

 

It was getting easier for Mickey to sneak out of the house during the day. It was like a game, slipping in and out before Mandy or his dad or brothers noticed he was gone. It was the kind of game he’d never had the chance to try while he was—during the—when he was _away_ , he decided, that’s what he could call it, a nice neutral way to think of the dark, claustrophobic time between Before and now.

(If he had his way, he would never need to think of or remember or acknowledge the time he was _away_ at all, ever.)

This time, he’d left the house through his bedroom window in the early morning. He fell and scraped his knee, unable to catch himself on impact, but the throb of the injury had only made him pull himself to his feet and set off faster, determined.

He moved like he was on a mission. A vague mission, but one that had directed his feet nonetheless.

When he was back in his room afterward, he didn’t feel the need to wedge himself between his dresser and his bed right away. Instead, he sat against his door and hugged his knees, thinking of the feel of his fist connecting with a fleshy, unsuspecting face, the blurry satisfaction of the moment in the store.

The muscles of hisown face pulled and he put his hand to his cheek. He felt the way the smile twitched against his palm, and he wondered at it as he rested his head against the cool wood of his door.

It took him a while to notice that he could hear Mandy and one of his brothers talking in the living room. He thought he’d been alone in the house with Mandy, who had been giving Mickey space since the therapy debacle in that odd predictive way she had, like she knew without asking that Mickey craved being alone most of the time still. Apparently not, he thought, hearing the deeper voice twining around Mandy's higher pitch.

He went still, trying to decipher which brother was there with Mandy. It was tough. They all sounded similar, at least to Mickey’s mind—gruff, sharp but somehow mumbling at the same time.

“Iggy, I don’t know why you’re freaking out,” Mandy said, answering Mickey’s question for him. “We always knew it was going to be like this. People were going to find out eventually.”

There was the shifting noise of the TV changing channel, Iggy huffing and shifting on the couch, making the fake leather creak.

“I guess,” Iggy said grudgingly. “It just sucks.”

“I know,” Mandy replied, sighing. “Trust me, I know.”

There was a pause, and then, in a burst like he couldn’t hold it in, “It’s just, now we’re just this ghetto fucking white trash family with the kid who spent three years in a box.” Iggy sounded bleak, and Mickey’s absent smile began to fall.

“It wasn’t a box,” Mandy said. Her voice was quiet, difficult to hear muffled through the wall.

“What are you talking about?”

“The investigators said he probably spent most of his time in the shed on the property, not underground in the box. Otherwise he’d be dead.”

Iggy made a loud sound of disbelief. “What the hell difference does it make, Mandy?”

“I’m just saying,” Mandy said, slowly, carefully, “that all those idiots on the block and calling in from the news, they don’t know shit. We don’t even know shit about what he went through. What it was like.”

The quiet resolve in Mandy’s voice gave Mickey pause. He wondered if she had always been this thoughtful. His memories of her from Before were hazy, lost in the raucous, more vivid energy of running around with his brothers and cousins. Mandy had always gotten lost in the shuffle.

He felt like he was learning who she really was, now.

“I just hate how everyone stares at us,” Iggy said. He sounded embarrassed. “Like we’re freaks.”

Mandy snorted. “Since when do you give a fuck what people think about us? Just beat their asses and move on.”

“You sound like Mickey,” Iggy said, amused. “Well.” His voice turned wistful. “You know what I mean.”

They both fell silent. Mickey leaned his head against the cool wood of his bedroom door, waiting for his brother and sister to talk some more. He was surprised by how invested he was in the conversation.

They didn’t, though. Eventually Mandy got up and made mac and cheese, and brought a heaping bowl to Mickey that he could only eat a third of, although Mandy looked proud of the attempt anyway. She was obsessed with stuffing him full of food anymore, always commenting on how skinny he was, like Mickey could somehow fail to notice the way his ribs and wrist bones and knobby knees poked at the surface of his skin like they were trying to burst through.

She kept leaving him alone for the rest of the day, and Mickey tried to distract himself from wondering if Ian was going to come by. He knew he could ask Mandy, if things were different. He was coming to hate the unknown of being a passive actor in his days.

After a few hours alone in his room, Mickey realized, with startling sparkling surprise, that he was _bored_.

It kept him awake long after his dad and the rest of his brothers came home, after Mandy brought him a sandwich for dinner, after the rest of the house settled into quiet and eventually sleep.

Mickey found himself growing antsier. The draw of outside became a drumbeat.

He blinked and found himself outside, heading in the direction of the abandoned buildings. Where he’d gone with Mandy earlier. Where he’d gone a month ago to burn one of them to the ground, for reasons that felt simultaneously too horrifying and too hazy to consider, so he didn’t, not yet.

Soon he was sitting on the edge of the roof, feet dangling in the warm, dark air. As he sat, he realized he remembered the entire walk over here. None of it was a blank stretch of lost time, now. And now, sitting on the cold concrete, he felt _awake_ , not on the brink of drifting away.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, the relief bittersweet in his mouth.

From the direction of the stairs that lead to the roof, Mickey heard the scuff of footsteps, then bits of rock and concrete sent shooting in all directions as someone climbed the stairs.

He whipped around as he came up into a crouch, every muscle tense as he waited for the moment to spring and flee, or to charge and attack whatever intruder had happened upon his hiding place.

“Mickey?” The voice echoed up the stairs, and the tension in Mickey’s body slowly began to ease at the sound of Ian’s voice.

A few moments later Ian’s head popped out of the doorway, his pale skin easily visible even in the darkness. He squinted as he peered around the roof.

Mickey straightened, standing up to his full height. The movement seemed to catch Ian’s eye and shock him all at the same time.

“Fuck,” Ian breathed, stepping out of the doorway. “You need a fucking cat bell, I swear to god.” He shook his head as he walked toward Mickey, a resolute expression on his face. Mickey watched, idly absorbed in the shape and texture of Ian’s mouth.

“We need to talk, man,” Ian said hotly when he reached Mickey near the edge of the roof. “I know you know what you’re doing. You can pretend you don’t, but you’ve heard me and Mandy talking about Kash. You saw him the other day when you and Mandy walked by. You went to the shop to steal the gun, you _know_ him.” He stepped right up into Mickey’s space. “You can’t just beat people up, Mick. What are you doing?”

Mickey wondered silently how Ian had known where to find him.

“Yeah, I knew you’d probably be here,” Ian said smarmily, throwing an arm out to gesture at the burned remains of the destroyed building laying in rubble beside the one they were in. “You’re not that slick, _jesus_ , you smelled like smoke for weeks.”

The thought that Ian knew that about Mickey, had taken the time to learn it, made the center of Mickey’s chest feel suddenly hot and molten, the sensation dissipating out to his fingers and toes.

Ian sighed, frustrated, and ran both hands through his hair, making it stick up a little in the back.

Mickey felt like he feel sparks or electricity or some hot jumping off of Ian’s skin, pricking onto Mickey’s skin, the closer he got.

“Look, I know things are, _fuck_ , things have to be so tough for you right now,” Ian said haltingly. Mickey narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like the way Ian's voice gentled, the careful way he spoke. He wanted Ian mad at him, pushing back, treating Mickey like he was _real_ , not some ghostly reminder of something terrible that had happened.

“You’ve got to be careful, okay?” Ian said.

The absurdity of Ian’s words made Mickey want to laugh, at the idea that the worst possible thing hadn’t already _happened_ to Mickey. 

Ian hesitated, then reached out and just barely brushed his fingers across the inside of Mickey’s wrist. “You have to watch out for yourself, okay?”

Mickey huffed out a breath, disappointed in Ian all of a sudden, at the coddling and protecting, and he turned to walk away, ready to go home, to hide back in the space beside his bed.

But before he could get more than a step away, Ian’s fingers on his wrist tightened, holding Mickey in place, and Mickey let Ian hold him still for a moment.

“That’s it?” Ian asked, annoyed again. “That’s all you got?”

Hissing, Mickey drew his arm back sharply enough that it burned, slipping it out of Ian’s grasp, but Mickey didn’t dart away. He took a breath, then met Ian’s eyes for a long moment that seemed to stand still, watched how Ian drew in a startled breath.

Ian’s eyebrows lifted. He reached out both arms to hold Mickey’s wrists again but Mickey slipped easily away, bending to shove his shoulder into Ian’s chest. Ian grunted in surprise and threw out an arm to push Mickey back, but Mickey used the movement to wrap around Ian’s waist and bring him to the ground.

Ian barked out a laugh, yelping, “Jesus, fuck,” but going slack enough that Mickey could hold him down.

Mickey followed, pinning his arms up above Ian’s head, craving the push and pull, the contact, the hot beat of his blood under his skin as he scuffled with Ian, the warm safety of knowing that he wouldn’t get hurt, that he wouldn’t really hurt Ian either.

He waited as Ian adjusted his hips on the hard cement floor without really fighting back.

“Is this weird?” Ian asked suddenly. He bit his lip. “This is probably weird. We probably shouldn’t do this again.”

He sighed and released Ian’s wrists, sitting back on his heels, letting Ian prop himself on his elbows so he could look at Mickey more easily. “I mean, you’re all—and I, well, I kind of have a…You know.” He gestured unintelligibly with one hand, accompanying his equally unintelligible words.

Mickey stared at Ian’s chest and arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Ian cracked a smile. “Alright, no need for the attitude.” He reached out hesitantly, and when Mickey made a point of holding still, settled his hand on Mickey’s waist. “I’m just saying. I don’t want to do anything wrong, here.”

In a different world, one where Mickey’s mind didn’t feel like it was battling against and protecting itself simultaneously, he would tell Ian that he did want this, that it was the only thing he knew he wanted to do, because it was the only time when he felt easy in his own skin, following the wordless instinct to touch and rut and fuck without the threat of memory or thought.

Times being what they were, he swallowed, preparing himself.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mickey said distinctly.

The words were familiar, a reflex, a phrase he knew he’d said countless times in the past now tumbling out of his mouth, but now with more effort than he’d ever needed to expend before.

His voice sounded harsh from disuse, more hoarse than he remembered it sounding, but he felt stubbornly proud that he’d used it. Finally.

Ian’s mouth gaped in surprise. “Holy shit.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, looking down at Ian’s hand on his hip, silently letting Ian get it out of his system.

“You just—does Mandy know?” Ian babbled. “Does she know you’re talking now?”

But Mickey’s throat felt exhausted from even that brief adventure with words. He shook his head carefully. He was hard in his jeans and he didn’t want to talk about his sister, or talk at all, about anything. His hands went to the collar of his shirt but he hesitated, embarrassed in a way he didn’t remember being the last time at having Ian see his skinny, naked body, the way his breastbone jutted out obstinately along his chest.

Ian touched Mickey’s waist. “Hey, you don’t have to,” he said, swallowing. He blushed high on his cheeks. He laughed nervously. “I mean. It’s kind of chilly up here anyway.”

It wasn’t, the air sticky with humidity, but Mickey took the excuse for what it was. He let go of his shirt collar and brought his hands to his jeans, watching Ian, half expecting the other boy to panic again and throw Mickey off him this time so he could leave.

He didn’t, though. He watched Mickey pull out his cock, eyes darting from Mickey’s hands to his face to his eyes and back down again, breathing going loud and uneven, like he was completely engrossed in Mickey on top of him. It wasn't enough though, Mickey wanted Ian involved too, and when he paused to scrabble ineffectually at Ian’s jeans, Ian got the message and took himself out, letting Mickey jerk himself and rub them together, hands only skimming against his skin, seemingly content to watch Mickey get off, set the rhythm, make the rules.

The idea that Mickey was holding the power, even for these few rushed, sweaty minutes, was heady and overwhelming and went straight to Mickey’s cock.

It didn’t take long. Mickey wished it would last longer, in fact, but he couldn’t slow the his hips, riding hard and fast and a little jerkily against the warmth of Ian beneath him, the rushing heat of coming exploding up his spine before he was ready for it all to be over.

He inhaled sharply, biting his lip at the almost painful intensity of the feeling. Beneath him, he heard Ian gasp. Without really deciding to do so, Mickey blinked, shifted his gaze, and looked Ian right in the in the eye.

He saw how Ian’s pupils were so dilated he could barely see the bright green of his irises. He saw how wide Ian’s eyes went when he saw Mickey looking at him, Ian’s mouth falling open in an O of surprise as he arched his back and followed Mickey over the edge.

Mickey let himself collapse fully on top of Ian. It was the most he’d touched another person in…well, since the last time he’d been with Ian like this. He was surprised by how much he liked it, almost better than the sex had been.

The rooftop was quiet as they lay there in the darkness, Ian resting one hand carefully on Mickey’s hip but otherwise not crowding Mickey, which he appreciated.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Ian said after a moment, moving his chin against the top of Mickey’s head.

Mickey wished that he could pluck this tiny moment free from time and live in it for the rest of his life.

 

***

 

Ian couldn’t get to the Milkovich house the next day, busy helping Debbie watch Liam and run the daycare while Fiona took Carl to a doctor’s appointment, Lip conspicuously avoiding the house since their argument.

He kept getting distracted though, staring off into space, remembering Mickey’s stern, face breaking open and unguarded as he came above Ian that night on the roof, until Debbie poked him hard in the side.

“Get your head in the game,” she said irritably. “These kids can smell weakness.”

He nodded, like he was getting an order at ROTC, and went back to feeding a finicky toddler some lunch he didn’t want to eat.

When his phone rang he considered ignoring it until after he fed the baby in front of him, but when he saw it was Mandy, he stepped back from the high chair and flipped it open.

“What’s up?” he asked, already smiling, happy to talk to Mandy in general but especially because it meant he might see Mickey later.

He wondered if Mickey had also started talking to Mandy and her family yet, before he could ask, Mandy burst out, “I can’t find Mickey,” panic creeping in at the edges of her words.

“What?” Ian stood up, standing ready and alert and useless in the middle of the kitchen, little kids swarming around his knees. “Since when?”

“An hour ago or so,” she said. “I've been all around the block already. This is the first time—I mean, I know sometimes he goes out at night, but I though he usually didn't, during the day—”

“I’ll go look now,” Ian promised, and said goodbye and hung up, stepping into his shoes at the same time.

He told Debbie he had to go, who gave him a truly weapons-grade eye roll, but he barely noticed. He kissed Liam on the cheek as he passed. “Be good, okay, bud?” Liam nodded absently, focused on stacking another block on his existing tower.

He hurried across the neighborhood and took the stairs to the abandoned building two at a time, panting when he got to the roof. He didn’t see Mickey right away. “Mickey?” he called out anyway.

After a long, pointed pause, Mickey stepped out from behind the empty skeleton of an ancient, gutted radiator. He didn’t know how Mickey fit himself into the tiny space. Mickey took a step forward and waited, face mildly expectant. Ian exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

“Yo man, you can’t just disappear on Mandy like that,” Ian said, trying to sound stern, remembering how worried Mandy had been.

Mickey raised his head slowly, looking Ian in the eye for a moment and then looking away dismissively.

“I’m just saying,” Ian said, defensively. “She’s freaked out. Don’t be a dick.”

Mickey sighed as he went to sit down on the edge of the roof, the sound surprisingly loud.

He looked back in Ian’s direction, somewhat imperiously, then down at the empty space beside him.

Ian groaned good-naturedly. “Alright, okay, I’m coming.” He threw himself down beside Mickey, swinging his long legs out over the edge. “You’re so bossy.”

He chanced nudging Mickey in the ribs, still uncertain of the tactile rules of engagement here, but Mickey just huffed out a put-upon sigh. Smiling, Ian joined Mickey in looking out at the remains of the burned building on the other side of the lot. 

After sending Mandy a text— _found him, will bring him home soon_ —he settled in, letting the silence stretch for a while, unwilling to rush Mickey home where he obviously hadn’t wanted to be in the first place, despite his message to Mandy.

“Why did you—you burned down that building, didn’t you?” Ian nodded in the direction of the scorched rubble on the other side of the abandoned lot. He was almost positive Mickey had, but now that Mickey was talking again, he couldn’t resist making sure. Maybe understanding _why_.

Mickey didn’t nod or acknowledge Ian at first. Ian was so used to Mickey remaining silent he didn’t quite expect him to respond at all, which made it all the more surprising when he did.

“I think. Yeah.” The words were slow and seemed to leave Mickey’s mouth reluctantly. He had a deep voice, deeper than Ian would have ever expected it to be.

Ian was reluctantly impressed. He didn’t know much about arson, but he had to imagine making an entire building go up in flames wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. Mickey must’ve really wanted the thing to burn.

“Do you know why?” Ian asked, hoping he wasn’t overstepping, that he wouldn’t send Mickey sliding back into the silent morass of wherever he’d been biding his time until now.

Again, it took almost uncomfortably long for Mickey to respond.

“Not…really.” He frowned as he looked out over the roof. “It’s. It’s hard, sometimes.” He made a tiny, minute movement with his hand in the general direction of his head.

“You mean, like, knowing what you’re doing?” Ian guessed, mirroring Mickey’s gesture but giving it more motion, gesturing at his own head.

Mickey shook his head. It took him less time to respond now. “No.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Mickey sighed, the sound obviously testy, and for some reason that made Ian grin. Mickey turned his head, looking at Ian out of the corner of his eye. To Ian, he looked exasperated, and it was such a normal expression that he let out a laugh, unintentionally but still embarrassing-sounding, like a witch's cackle.

Slowly, Mickey’s eyebrow rose, judgmentally.

Throwing up his hands, Ian forced himself to quiet down. “Sorry! It’s just—you’re talking! I can’t help it, I just want to talk to you.”

After another thoughtful pause, Mickey shrugged one skinny shoulder, the first time Ian had seen him make the gesture. It felt like another milestone.

“Remembering,” Mickey said, like he tasted the word and he didn’t know if he liked it.

“What do you—what about remembering?” Ian asked, losing the thread, and Mickey threw him an impatient look. “Okay, sorry, it’s just, do you mean…is remembering hard?”

Mickey didn’t nod. He did go very, very still, and Ian figured he’d hit the mark.

“Yeah,” Ian said, feeling heavy just thinking about it, “that makes sense, I guess. Is that why you left the house?” He didn’t add _without telling Mandy_ , but the rebuke was there.

Mickey raised his shoulder again in another tiny shrug.

Ian’s phone pinged with a message from Mandy: _oh thank jesus I was fucking freaking out tell Mickey he’s a fucker._

Ian snorted and showed the phone to Mickey, only remembering to wonder if Mickey _could_  read once the screen was already in front of his eyes. The question was answered, though, when Mickey squinted, considered the screen carefully, and then twitched the corner of his lip in a tiny movement Ian would bet his left arm was a smile.

“You shouldn’t piss off Mandy, man, she can be a holy terror,” Ian said, dead serious. It was one of the things he loved and feared about Mandy, her ability to turn on a dime if she felt someone deserved justice in some form.

Mickey gave Ian’s collarbone a frank look. Apparently he didn’t want to talk about Mandy anymore. Ian recognized the sudden intense, focused look in Mickey’s eye, and felt a hot flush creep quickly up his neck in response, his body already conditioned to react to the micro changes in Mickey’s expressions.

When Mickey moved for Ian’s belt, though, Ian stopped him. He marveled a little at the way Mickey let him grasp his wrists, at how he went still, waiting.

Ian would be hard pressed to explain the impulse, but somewhere, dimly, he felt irritated that they’d more or less fucked twice now but he didn’t even know what it felt like to have Mickey’s lips against his own.

So, feeling so awkward he thought maybe he could die from it, he leaned forward slowly, breathing in short, silent gasps, letting Mickey move away if he wanted to, but he didn’t. He just stayed still, waiting, it seemed, until Ian was close enough to press his lips to Mickey’s.

It was pretty chaste as far as first kisses went, in Ian’s opinion at least, close-mouthed, warm and clumsy and achingly slow. It made his heart start to race so fast it made it hard to breathe.

No matter what they’d done together already, that moment, touching nowhere but where their lips pressed together, felt far more intimate to Ian than any other they’d shared so far. He wondered dimly if Mickey felt the same way, if he even _could_ feel the same way.

Mickey made a quiet, torn sound from deep in his throat, and for the first time Ian felt like he might be going a little crazy over a boy.

After another breathless moment, Ian pulled back to breath shakily into Mickey’s face. He tried to catch Mickey’s eye, but Mickey was blinking, dazed, staring at Ian’s mouth.

“Whoa,” Ian muttered, tipping forward so his forehead pressed against Mickey’s.

Mickey huffed out a sound that might have been a laugh, leaning just enough that Ian could feel the increased pressure against his head.

Ian didn’t know how long they stayed that way, heads touching, breaths slowing coming down to normal. He'd have been happy to spend hours there, maybe the whole day.

Distantly, he noticed a rushing sensation in his ears. It felt like he was falling.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all _so much_ for all the hits and kudos and comments! You guys are the best. Thanks for giving this fic a chance. Once again, look for updates on Mondays. 
> 
> Come chill on Tumblr yall: ohjafeeljadefinitely.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

***

**July**

***

Mickey started sneaking into the Gallagher house on accident. 

It was getting easier to keep track of his days and nights and the endless hours in between, so it was easier in turn to plan his escape from the house during windows of time when Mandy or his dad wouldn’t notice.

His dad, mostly because he wanted to avoid the wincing fury of an aborted, half-shouted lecture about staying out of sight. Mandy, because he didn’t want her to worry anymore.

It started as midnight walks through the neighborhood. He avoided the abandoned building where he’d kissed Ian, instead preferring to walk up and down the alleys that bisected the blocks around his house.

He wrapped up in one of his brother’s old ratty hoodies (the entirety of Mickey’s clothes consisted of a small pile of bland Wal-Mart brand jeans, white T-shirts and red boxers, and they smelled like plastic to his nose) and used the hood to shadow his face from whoever he might run into at three in the morning on the South Side of Chicago.

Which ended up being mostly people fucked up on something, or homeless people, neither of whom Mickey minded. They were the types of people who didn’t really give a shit about some scrawny kid wandering the streets by himself after dark.

It was hot most nights, the summer heat lingering long after the sun went down until the air felt soupy and thick with the residual warmth, and while the ratty hoodie was hot Mickey also didn’t mind that. The heat, even the rivulets of sweat, made his skin feel electric and alive. Plus, he was still so skinny that being overly warm was a novel sensation.

As he walked, he realized he wasn’t drifting. He realized he wasn’t drifting nearly as much in general. It made his heart pound, the idea that he was starting to actually notice when he’d been sitting in the same position in his room for more than a few hours.

It was incredibly unnerving at times, reacquainting himself with what it meant to be bored, and now, being able to focus on the steps he was taking up the street, down the block, made him feel ever so briefly in control.

He liked feeling in control again, just for a few hours at night.

He found himself eyeing the houses he passed with budding curiosity. He wondered who was inside, what the families were like. If something terrible had ever happened to them, or if not, why it hadn’t. Why they were so different from Mickey.

He started walking silently up to side windows and peeking inside. He could appreciate that this was something Mandy or Ian, or god forbid, his dad, would regard with extreme alarm.

Even he knew it was probably a creepy thing to do, but he figured if he stayed silent, if he made sure no one saw him, it wouldn’t matter. 

Most of the time, people were sleeping and the rooms without curtains were empty. Sometimes people were watching TV. One time he saw a lady walking up and down the length of her kitchen with a baby in her arms, mouth moving silently as she sang, eyes drooping nearly closed in exhaustion. 

Mickey came back to that house the next night, and the next, but he never caught another moment with the lady and her baby again. He wondered what had happened, if the lady had moved or if the baby had been taken.

But then, that didn’t really happen to most people, he reminded himself. Most people didn’t get kidnapped and hidden away for years. Almost nobody did. Except for him, apparently.

With something like panic, he felt himself drifting and walked quickly away from the window where the mother and baby had been, trying to outrun the threat of losing his grip on time, of blinking and coming awake with smoke on his clothes, with a gun in his hand, in the car with his dad watching him angrily.

He was so busy fleeing from the possibility of losing focus that he was surprised to find himself on the Gallagher’s back porch, staring at the doorknob.

He didn’t know it was Ian’s house at first. No, he looked down, saw a pile of shoes, and instantly recognized the sneakers Ian wore whenever he came to the Milkovich house. The shoes he was wearing the night they sat together on top of the abandoned building. They had high tops and fraying red laces, with a big black scuff on one heel.

Was that weird, to know someone’s shoes by heart? Mickey wasn’t sure, and he also wasn’t quite sure when he’d started wondering if knowing or doing one thing or the other was normal or not. He was sure that he didn’t want Ian to think he was weird.

He probably wouldn’t tell him about the shoe thing.

The back door was locked, but the window off to the side was ajar. Mickey only deliberated for a second or two before he hefted himself onto the sill (his muscles still felt stringy and weak most of the time, but every time he hopped out of his own window at home, he felt like it was getting easier and easier) and shoved the window the rest of the way open.

He slipped inside what appeared to be a shadowy kitchen, feeling much like a shadow himself. Nothing reminded him immediately of Ian, and he didn’t know why he’d expected it to since from the way Ian and Mandy talked, the Gallagher family was nearly as large and unwieldy as the Milkovich tribe. This kitchen seemed appropriately disheveled for a family with a bunch of kids in it.

Mickey stepped up to the kitchen table and studied the assorted items strewn atop it curiously—a stack of envelopes, a bright plastic folder with a kitten on it, a Sippy cup, a picture book with fuzzy animals on the front.

He paused at the picture book, flipping open the cover to skim the text and the images.

To his right were stairs. He could see into the living room. It was dark and empty. Ian was probably upstairs, with the rest of his family.

He paused again, this time at the foot of the stairs. As soon as he put a foot on the first step, he knew it was a lost cause.

Comfortable in the dark quiet, he crept upstairs and into a hallway. He peeked in the first door and saw an older girl passed out in bed, dark hair spilling out like ink on the pillowcase. In the next room, a younger redheaded girl was flat on her back, snoring softly.

At the end of the hall, a bedroom with a door half-open beckoned. He walked to the end and glided inside, letting his eyes adjust to the different shade of darkness.

It smelled like boy in here, a musky combination of body odor and stale laundry, stronger even than his brothers’ rooms, but then, there were more boys inside this room. There were four boys, in fact, and in the bed facing him—Ian.

Mickey’s eyes widened involuntarily. He took a step forward, tentative for the first time since coming into the Gallagher house.

Ian was curled on his side with his knees close against his chest, one hand gripping slackly to the pillowcase, mouth open, breathing deeply.

The sight of that mouth distracted Mickey. He knew what it felt like pressed against his own, now. He leaned in slightly, eyes darting over Ian’s face, feeling compelled to memorize every detail. 

In sleep, Ian made a low whining sound. Mickey jumped, instantly alert and ready to flee, but Ian just huffed and shifted, settling on his back, arms thrown out on either side. 

The movement shocked Mickey into awareness. He sucked in a silent breath.

Okay, he reasoned over a sudden flare of panic, this was probably really weird. If there was a line between what normal people did and what people like Mickey tended to do, he thought he must be seriously flirting with it. He needed to get out of this house. He hadn’t earned the right to be a ghost in Ian’s house. 

Fuck. The word sparked comfortingly in his mind. Since the night he’d said the word out loud, it was like a pacifier, calming him when he panicked or became frustrated. He thought it again now. Fuck.

Over the panic, though, he was hit with a pang of pride that he was slowly becoming able to recognize, without prompting from Mandy or anyone else, how to be normal. Or at least the kind of normal that didn’t break into someone’s house to watch them sleep.

As he turned to go, he felt noticed a sudden dart of movement to the side and he whirled on it, only to find a toddler sitting up in his crib in the corner of the room.

Mickey tensed, waiting for the baby to start crying, and the inevitable humiliation of Ian waking up to find Mickey looming over him like the crazy person his dad and the neighborhood and everyone else assumed him to be; but the kid just watched him, sucking on the side of his small fist thoughtfully.

The moment stretched on, the baby staring at Mickey, Mickey staring at the baby.

Then the kid yawned, blinking sleepily, and settled back down in his crib. To Mickey’s amazement, he curled up and closed his eyes, as if he’d ascertained that Mickey was indeed not a threat, and he was safe to go back to sleep now.

Spell broken, Mickey twirled on his heel and hurried out of the room and back down into the kitchen, hoisting himself out of the window and back into the thick, hot night before he could appreciate how hard his heart was pounding in his chest.

He didn’t promise himself he wouldn’t come back, though. Despite the revelation that he was getting better at recognizing how normal people acted, enough that he could mimic it, follow the rules, he didn’t know if he’d ever relearn how to lie to himself.

And telling himself he wouldn’t come back to the Gallagher house tomorrow night felt like a lie.

  

***

 

Ian woke up on a gasp. His heart was racing and he didn’t know why. He blinked up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. 

He had an odd feeling in the back of his mind that he wasn’t alone in the bedroom. 

But when he sat up, glancing around the room, he saw he was completely alone. Carl was gone, Lip’s bed was an empty tangle of sheets, and the crib was missing one tiny toddler. 

When he got downstairs, he was surprised to see Lip sitting at the kitchen table. He’d been stuffing his schedule full of ACT prep with kids from the high school, carefully avoiding Ian like he owed him money. 

But this morning he was feeding Liam, making faces at the baby and chatting with Fiona as she made a lunch for Carl to take to summer school like nothing had happened.

“Hey,” Ian said, voice hoarse from sleep. 

“Happy Fourth of July!” Fiona chirped, always so goddamn _cheery_ in the mornings.

“Fourth July!” Liam parroted placidly.

Lip chuckled, handing Liam a handful of dry cereal. “Fourth of July!” he said back to the baby.

“Shit.” Ian rubbed both hands over his face. He’d completely forgotten the date. He stumbled to the table and sat down, feeling worn out. 

Fiona shot Lip a meaningful look, and Lip rolled his eyes but turned to Ian dutifully. Ian watched it all happen warily, feeling ready to flee.

“So,” Lip said casually. “I was going to sell some fireworks and shit with Kev today, but later, you maybe want to…I don’t know, hang out?”

Ian frowned, feeling weirdly like his own brother was asking him out on a date. 

“Um,” he hedged. “Well. I’ll probably be going over to Mandy’s, her uncles and cousins always have that big block party going on. Or at least, they usually do.”

He wondered if Mandy’s dad would put his foot down this year, stick with his theme of relative house arrest for the Milkovich children until the lingering neighborhood interest in Mickey cooled down. He sent Mandy a text asking.

“Shit, Ian,” Fiona said with a wince. “That’s more like a prison party than a block party anymore.”

“A Cell Block C party,” Lip offered, and Fiona smirked at him. She leaned over the kitchen counter to high-five Lip.

“You guys are really funny,” Ian said flatly. “But it’ll be fine, I’ll be with Mandy.” And with Mickey, he failed to say, not wanting to admit that he was slightly nervous just thinking of Mickey caught in the middle of the wild, out-of-control Milkovich Fourth of July party.

“Well, if you wanted some company,” Lip said, uncharacteristically tentative.

“You could bring that stash of fireworks Carl thinks I don’t know about!” Fiona cut in brightly, gesturing with her spatula. “I’m sure Mandy’s family wouldn’t mind a little something extra this year.”

Before Ian could put together a response, Carl and Debbie came stomping down the stairs, Carl’s hair wet and sticking up in cowlicks from his Fiona-mandated weekly summer shower. Debbie was asking Fiona if she could add another kid to the daycare roster, and Carl was complaining about the sandwich in his lunch for the day. In the middle of the commotion, Ian’s phone chirped.

He flipped it open and saw the text from Mandy: _yes we’re still having the party god help us all please come save me as soon as you can._

Focused on the message, Ian didn’t notice Lip had sidled over until he threw himself in the chair next to him at the table. Ian startled, shoving the phone back in his pocket.

“I’m sorry I melted down before,” Lip said quietly, “about Mandy’s brother and everything. I might have been out of line.”

Ian resisted the urge to whip out his phone, record Lip admitting to wrongdoing and save it as his ringtone. Instead he raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

“Jesus, I’m trying to apologize here,” Lip snapped. “Just…let me come with you tonight. If you don’t mind letting me peek inside your secret life for once.”

It was a challenge, a blatant _I dare you_ , and Ian was always a sucker for a dare.

“Fine,” he said. He poked Lip in the chest. “But don’t be a dick, okay? I’m barely allowed over at that house anyway, don’t fuck this up for me. 

Lip gave him a sarcastic salute. “Roger that, soldier.”

Ian rolled his eyes, grabbing a pop tart and going upstairs to get dressed for work.

He spent the rest of the day at the store, worrying about his decision to bring Lip with tonight. He was alone at the store, Kash off with Linda at her parents’ house for a cook out, and Ian was glad to have the time to himself. He’d been avoiding Kash lately, and even when they were together, working or fucking or talking, Ian felt distracted, uncomfortable in his own skin in a way he hadn’t felt with Kash before.

He was grateful today that he was closing early and all he had to do was ring people up for barbeque sauce and charcoal. And get nervous about bringing Lip over to the Milkovich house.

Lip was waiting for him outside their house when Ian came home, a six-pack in his lap and a soggy-looking cardboard box at his side. “Let’s do this thing,” Lip said, cigarette dangling from his lips like he was Al Capone. “But if I get shot to death by Terry Milkovich tonight, just know that I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you, as a brother and as a man.”

Ian rolled his eyes, hefting the box of fireworks into his arm. “Would you please just _be cool_ , you fucking wiseass?” he pleaded.

Hopping up from the steps, Lip laughed. “Relax, I won’t embarrass you in front of the popular kids, alright?” He threw an arm around Ian’s shoulders, the beer bottles jingling merrily in his other arm. Ian tried to maintain his frown but it was difficult, Lip’s shorter stature making Ian list slightly to the side as they walked clumsily down the street, Lip chattering about selling fireworks in the park all day.

Ian tried to settle, focusing on Lip’s voice as they walked, clutching the box of fireworks tight with both arms.

They could hear the Milkovich party before they could see it. Back in the day Ian remembered how a few of the Milkovich neighbors used to pay for a permit to block off the street and grill burgers and hot dogs for anyone who wandered by, little kids like Ian and Lip and Fiona welcome to run around and get underfoot of the adults getting happily plastered above them. As the years went on and the Milkoviches themselves became the de facto feudal rulers of their square city block, the parties became wilder and less friendly to families and little kids, mostly drunken and drug-fueled. After Mickey’s disappearance, there’d been a distinct shift, the parties turning rougher, and Ian and his siblings stopped going.

Ian even remembered Monica sitting them down the summer after Mickey was taken and telling Ian and Lip to steer clear of the Milkovich block party that year. And if Monica felt compelled to point out the danger of a social gathering, Ian knew they should probably stay the fuck away from it.

But that was then, Ian coached himself as they approached the Milkoviches’ block, and Mickey was back now. Maybe it would be more like a celebration this time around. At the very least, maybe no one would get shot or stabbed this year.

Turning the corner, they started toward the crowds of people milling around the Milkovich front yard, spilling out onto the street. There were far fewer people than Ian remembered from the block party’s heyday, and they were mostly men. He spotted a few of Mandy’s brothers in the distance, a cousin or two who looked familiar.

He felt equally anxious to locate Mandy and Mickey in the morass of loud, drunken men.

Ian saw Mickey and Mandy’s dad sitting in a recliner on the corner of the lawn. The chair looked like it had been dragged out of the house. A few loud men drifted around Terry but he didn’t seem to notice them, even when they spoke to him directly.

Ian and Lip had to pass by Terry to get into the yard, and Ian had to stop himself from gulping audibly. “Uh. _Heeeey_ , Mr. Milkovich,” Ian said, his nervousness translating, as usual, into extreme overfamiliarity.

“Smooth,” Lip said under his breath. Ian kicked his ankle. Lip dug his knuckle into Ian’s side, making Ian nearly drop the box of fireworks.

But Terry Milkovich didn’t respond to either of them. He didn’t seem to see them, really, just took a mechanical pull from the beer bottle in his hand, maintaining his hard stare out at the middle distance, a solitary island amongst the roiling activity of the party. 

Ian and Lip walked past him, trying to ignore the suspicious eyes of the men standing around Terry as they headed toward the driveway.

“If this shit doesn’t get shut down by the cops in an hour, I owe you twenty bucks,” Lip muttered to Ian, tensing slightly as they waded into the crowd.

“Deal,” Ian muttered back. Then he saw Mandy step out from the front door, short skirt and wild, multicolored hair standing out vividly even in the darkening evening. 

“Ian!” she called out. She gestured with her chin, smiling brightly. “Go around back, I’ll meet you there.”

Ian led the way, taking Lip around the side of the house and into the backyard, itself a mire of rusty metal and scattered trash but blessedly empty of any partygoers, somehow.

The screen door creaked and Mandy stepped out. “I’m so glad you made it!” she said, smiling and coming down the back steps in her bare feet. Ian smiled back, and then, catching Mickey’s silent form hovering behind her, smiled even wider.

“We’ve been chilling inside,” Mandy said as she closed the door behind Mickey. “People were staring out front, being assholes, you know, the usual with Dad’s friends. It was stressing me out.” She glanced worriedly at Mickey, who was watching Ian’s shoulder with familiar intensity.

Ian lifted up the box of fireworks in his arms in offering. “Fiona found Carl’s arsenal, thought we could set ‘em off with you guys later,” he said.

“Hell yeah!” Mandy whooped. She practically skipped over, Mickey drifting along after her. She wrestled the box out of Ian’s arms onto the ground so she could dig through. “Fuck, was your little brother saving up to plant some kind of bomb?” she asked in shock, sifting through the fireworks in her hand. 

“I think he was trying to sell them,” Lip offered, crouching down to pull out a few bottle rockets and twirl them in his hand. 

Mandy sat back on her heels, peering thoughtfully up at Lip. She tucked her hair behind one ear. “Hey, Lip,” she said slyly.

“Sup, Mandy,” Lip said with a grin.

Ian did his best not to make a face. He glanced at Mickey and saw the other boy was narrowing his eyes, taking in Lip and the way he was eyeing his sister. Ian nudged him in the side, subtly enough that Mandy wouldn’t see, and when Mickey looked over Ian made a show of rolling his eyes dramatically. He saw Mickey bite his lip. Ian swore he saw a smile threatening to break out.

When Ian couldn’t help but beam, Mickey made a delicate huffing sound. Lip finally glanced up them both, cocking his head in Mickey’s direction. “So you’re the guy who’s been stealing my brother away,” Lip said.

He seemed to be waiting for Mickey to respond, but Mickey just looked at the ground near Lip’s feet, stubbornly, in Ian’s opinion. Finally Mandy jumped in. “He doesn’t really—hey, you want to put those in the fridge?” She nodded at the six-pack in Lip’s hands and Lip finally looked away from Mickey, shrugging.

“Fine,” he said, and followed Mandy around to the front of the house, presumably to the coolers.

Which left Ian and Mickey alone, the thought making Ian’s stomach go warm. He kicked the box of fireworks near the side of the house and sat on the steps leading to the back door, watching patiently as Mickey drifted over to sit beside him. 

“You like fireworks?” Ian asked. His shoulder was tucked neatly next to Mickey’s so they were touching all along their sides and it seemed to take Mickey a second to focus on the question. 

Mickey thought about it. Ian could practically see the question bouncing around inside his head. Fireworks. Did he like fireworks. Ultimately, Mickey said, “I think so,” slowly, like he was mostly pretty sure he didn’t _dislike_ them.

“Fiona’s afraid of them,” Ian confided. “I think that’s the real reason she wanted us to take them away from Carl, so this way she has an excuse to hide in the house with Liam all night.”

“Why is she afraid?” Mickey asked, tilting his head speculatively.

Ian shrugged, making Mickey jiggle with the movement. “She hates loud noises, I think. They make her all skittish, like a racehorse.”

“What,” Mickey said slowly, dryly, “would _you_ know about racehorses.”

Ian felt his mouth drop open slightly, and then he barked out a laugh, completely enchanted by the small, shy movement of Mickey’s mouth.

“You are such a brat,” Ian said, shoving Mickey’s shoulder with both hands.

“ _You’re_ the brat,” Mickey said back. He sounded so pleased with himself and his joke that Ian kept giggling, so caught up he didn’t notice they weren’t alone until Mandy swore from off to his left.

“What the hell.” Her voice was weak, but Ian and Mickey both spun around to face her in one hurried, sheepish twist.

Ian tried to sputter a response but she ignored him, completely focused on Mickey. She stepped closer, her eyes wide and shiny.

“Mickey,” she whispered. “Did you…were you _talking_?”

Oh shit, Ian thought miserably. Oh _shit_. He hadn’t realized—why would Mickey only talk to him, though? He’d assumed he’d started talking to Mandy at least, probably the rest of his family as well, but from the look of stunned disbelief on Mandy’s face that was clearly not the case. 

Mickey kept his eyes on the ground, on her feet, but he hunched his shoulders like he’d been caught breaking the law.

“Since when?” The question hung in the air, thick and vaguely accusatory.

When Mickey didn’t seem to be rushing to fill in the gaps, Ian couldn’t take it anymore and blurted, “The other night. After I found him, before I brought him home.” Mickey’s head jerked up sharply in annoyance, and Ian reconsidered his words. Ian sighed impatiently. “Sorry, when we came home _together_ , consensually, as equal partners.” He raised an eyebrow at Mickey. “That better for you?” Mickey looked away in dismissive acceptance, and Ian snorted in amusement, until he looked back at Mandy.

She was watching their exchange with nearly uncontrollable longing on her face. When she caught Ian staring she coughed and looked away. She smiled brightly with nearly every tooth in her head. 

“I’m—this is good. I’m happy that you started talking again. To Ian.” Her voice was a little shrill and she glanced away. “It’s a good thing.” 

Mickey looked at Ian’s shoulder in concern, but Ian didn’t know how to get control of the situation at hand, with Mandy standing forlornly before them, almost physically painful to behold. 

“Does Dad know?” Mandy asked Mickey, but before Mickey had a chance to respond (if he were going to, which he didn’t seem about to), she shook her head. “Of course he doesn’t, right? Don’t worry, I won’t tell him either, not til you’re ready.” 

“Mandy—” Ian tried to say, but Mandy shook her head forcefully.

“No, it’s fine, I’m—I’ll go find Lip, he got caught talking to my brother Colin about something. Better go save him.” She laughed hollowly and hurried out of the backyard. 

Ian sat in quiet, guilty shock next to Mickey. He couldn’t tell if Mickey was thrown by Mandy walking in on them talking, but Ian was, he was totally, no-question _thrown_.

“Why didn’t you say anything to her?” Ian asked quietly, when what he really wanted to ask was _why are you only talking to me?_

Mickey sighed gustily. “It’s hard,” he said bleakly, the weight of a thousand unspoken words bearing down on the short sentence.

“That’s what she said,” Ian chirped automatically.

Then he clapped both hands over his mouth, mortified. “Shit,” he said through his hands. “Sorry, that was…really inappropriate. Let’s….we can talk more about—” He stopped himself from actually saying _your serious emotional trauma_ at the last minute, but it was a near miss. “—your thing.” 

Mickey stared at him in shock, his eyes meeting Ian’s for a rare moment of direct eye contact before sliding away, and his lip twitched. 

Slowly, Ian’s embarrassment started to fade. He lifted an eyebrow at Mickey’s mouth. “Don’t you dare,” Ian said sternly. “This is a serious discussion we’re having. Don’t you smile and ruin it.” 

Mickey turned away but Ian saw the corner of his mouth lift. Mickey’s eyes were bright, almost with disbelief. 

“Don’t do it. Don’t smile.” Ian was grinning fully now, leaning in to nudge Mickey with his shoulder. “Come on, hold out. Fight it.” 

Just as Mickey’s mouth widened into a near-grin he covered his mouth with one hand. Ian laughed, wrapping his own hand around Mickey’s wrist, tugging gently. “No way man, I have to see it,” he pleaded, giggling. “Come on, please.” 

With a final huff, Mickey let Ian draw his hand away, and Ian felt his own smile drop away. Because holy _shit_. Mickey was _smiling_. 

It was almost blinding, actually, being this close to it. Mickey had incredibly white teeth, all things considered. Ian couldn’t stop staring at them. 

Mickey’s smile wavered almost immediately, turning uncertain, no doubt at Ian’s sudden dumbstruck expression. But Ian couldn’t help it. And he couldn’t help swooping forward in the next moment, crushing his mouth against that smile, powerless to resist swallowing it up. 

Their teeth clashed and Ian had a second of worry that he was being too rough before Mickey made a uneven, low sound, almost like a growl, and careened forward, knocking Ian off the back steps and into the dirt beside the house. 

Ian grunted as his back hit the ground but Mickey was clambering over him, pinning his shoulders to the ground with both hands and kissing Ian back again. 

It was much harsher than when they’d kissed on the roof, much more in line with the desperate roughness of the previous times they’d fucked around, the hot thump of blood under Ian’s skin familiar but growing more complex, making him wrap his arm around Mickey’s waist and flip him, putting him beneath Ian’s body so Ian could tilt his head just right and attack Mickey’s mouth, licking deep inside, loving the shocked, heated gasp he could coax from Mickey’s mouth.  

Mickey allowed Ian to be on top for another moment or two before squirming around and using his hips to throw Ian’s weight off, crawling on top again. Ian laughed breathlessly, letting Mickey pin his hands as he ground his hips down into Ian’s lap, transforming the laugh into a groan. 

Ian had never really thought of himself as someone who got off on being held down and dominated, especially by a pale, skinny scrap of a boy whose rangy strength continued to catch Ian off guard, but this, being humped into the ground as Mickey held him there and attacked his mouth—Ian could get into this, probably. Definitely.

The sounds of the block party faded into the background and the backyard felt like its own private, shadowed bubble. So Ian was caught completely off guard when Lip’s voice cut angrily through the air, no more than five feet away from where Ian and Mickey were writhing together on the ground.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?” 

Ian jerked, shoving out from under Mickey and rolling away, panting and rubbing at his obviously kiss-swollen lips with one hand. Mickey propped himself up on his elbow and watched Ian panic, his head tilted in bemusement.

“Lip,” Ian yelped uselessly, hopping to his feet.

“Oh, hey _Ian_ ,” Lip said coolly. He nodded at Mickey. “And you, again.” He went back to glaring at Ian. “I was going to come get the fireworks, Mandy’s brothers were going to help us set them up.” He coughed delicately. “I mean. If I’m not _interrupting_ anything.” He rolled his eyes theatrically and left Ian and Mickey alone again.

Ian looked up at Mickey, stunned, then burst out laughing at the nonplussed look on Mickey’s face. He pulled himself up out of the dirt and tugged at Mickey’s sleeve. “Well, what do you say we check out those fireworks, huh?”

Mickey shrugged, honest-to-god lifted and dropped his shoulders, and Ian had to bite his lip not to smile at the gesture. “Okay,” he said finally, and let Ian lead him out of the backyard.

A few of Mickey and Mandy’s uncles saw Ian and Mickey come out from the backyard. They stared hungrily at Mickey, watching him with almost rabid curiosity.

Ian shouldered Mickey behind him gently, shielding him with his body like Mickey was the president.

Mandy was nowhere to be found, but he saw Lip standing in the corner of the driveway near the old Chevy town car, drinking a beer sullenly. He didn’t acknowledge Ian and Mickey as they came to stand beside him, Ian making sure to keep Mickey sheltered from prying eyes between Ian and Lip’s bodies.

On the street, there was a whoop, and Ian could see Iggy Milkovich laughing and swearing with a cousin, yanking at Carl’s box of fireworks. He pulled out a few bottle rockets and set them off with a lighter, yelping and running out of reach as they went off. The assorted drunken block party guests gathered at a relatively safe distance on the lawn, watching Iggy and the cousin dick around, until Iggy finally seemed to get serious, pulling out an armful of fireworks and laying them out in a line on the street.

In a surprising display of coordination, Iggy went down the line, sticking a few into empty beer bottles and then igniting them methodically, running away to give the bottle rockets enough room to go off, hollering in surprise at a few bigger ones that went up higher into the sky, throwing off bright, reflective bursts of color.

Ian only noticed the fireworks in passing, though, too busy staring at Mickey like a weirdo. He was mesmerized by the open amazement on Mickey’s face, chin tipped up toward the sky, drinking in the fireworks eagerly. 

So absorbed was Ian, he only noticed Lip’s equally arrested expression by chance. When a particularly loud firework made Ian flinch, he glanced up and saw Lip was watching Mickey too, his face a study in conflicted sympathy.

Lip glanced at Ian and his lips went thin. He shook his head once, in exasperation maybe, Ian wasn’t sure, and he went back to watching Mickey. 

Iggy set off a few M-80s as a finale, and Ian tensed, turning to Mickey, afraid the sudden loud noises would set him off some how, but although Mickey jerked in surprise, he didn’t stop staring at the sky in wonder.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” Terry said gruffly, appearing out of nowhere. Ian hadn’t noticed his approach, and judging by Mickey’s sudden stillness, he hadn’t either.

Terry set a heavy hand on Mickey’s shoulder. To Ian’s surprise, Mickey didn’t immediately pull away from the touch, instead going stiffly still. Terry patted Mickey’s shoulder clumsily. “You don’t have to be out here, I mean. If you don’t want to.”

Mickey stared at his dad’s hand on his shoulder for a moment, and then, almost delicately, stepped back so Terry’s hand fell to his side. Mickey turned to Ian.

“Bye, Ian,” he said softly, but clearly, so clearly it felt like a gunshot even in the crowded front yard.

Terry’s eyes went wide as he watched his son turn and walk up the front steps and into the house.

“Did he…” Terry trailed off, swallowing thickly. He looked at Ian and Lip, and Ian tensed for the worst. “You boys…you boys have a good night.” He clapped Ian on the shoulder with the same meaty paw that he’d patted Mickey’s shoulder with, but with more force, sending Ian jerking to the side. Lip reached out and grabbed his elbow, steadying him. 

“What in the hell,” Lip said in wonder, watching Terry trundle away back toward his chair in the corner of the lawn. “This is all very Twilight Zone, man.”

Ian looked around one last time for Mandy, but he didn’t see her anywhere. He scanned the crowds of people milling around the block, troubled. Eventually he left with Lip, leaving the noise of the Milkovich front yard behind them.

They made it maybe another half a block after that before Lip couldn’t seem to stand the silence any longer.

“Just for the record, that little display I walked in on in the backyard, that officially counts as yet another ridiculous, _enormous_ secret you’ve been keeping from me,” Lip said through gritted teeth.

Ian sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well, also for the record, you freaked out when you thought I was just hanging out with him. How the hell was I was supposed to work in the rest of it—oh yeah, sometimes we get each other off?”

Lip made a face like he was sucking on a lemon. “Dude,” He said, shaking his head. “Only you. Only _you_ would somehow fall into a fucking relationship with the neighborhood feral child.”

Ian stopped walking abruptly, whirling on Lip. “Easy with that shit, man,” he said.

Lip held up both hands. “Sorry,” he said, eye roll belying the apology. “That was out of line. Neighborhood victim of childhood abuse, that better for you?”

The new term made Ian scrunch his nose up. “No. Not really.” 

“Yeah, well, deal with it, because that’s what he is,” Lip said irritably. 

They resumed walking, Ian caught up on the idea of Mickey as an official Abuse Victim. Which of course he was, Ian would have to be an idiot not to know that, even if the details of the entire situation were still hazy. It was just, _labeling_ him that way, it felt…Ian didn’t like the way it felt, that much was for sure. 

“I mean, the gay stuff is one thing,” Lip said in exasperation, moving on and waving a hand jerkily to indicate said _gay stuff_ , “but dude, I cannot for the life of me understand your taste in guys.”

Ian shrugged, automatically uncomfortable with the idea of Lip trying to understand such a thing. “I guess we’ll never have to worry about any professional overlap, then,” he said blithely, chancing a sly grin.

Lip shook his head, leveling Ian with a glare. “Don’t get cute with me.” But then he sighed, most of the aggression melting from his face. “I don’t like this, though. Let the record state.”

“Let the record state,” Ian echoed, nodding officially even as he was already drifting to the way it felt being held down and borderline ravished by Mickey on the ground.

Because it didn’t really matter though, if Lip didn’t like it, or if he tried to outright forbid the whole thing like some overbearing older brother in an old-timey novel (and he really needed to start reading ja-nay-ray, _balls_ ), because it was too late for that, Ian realized.

He is in it, now. He was deep, deep in it, whatever this was.

 

***

  

The trouble with revealing that he could talk, Mickey decided, or more specifically, that he was _willing_ to talk, was that now his family expected him to do it, all the time, and got pissed off when he couldn’t perform. 

In the days following the block party, Mickey’s dad kept coming up to him and asking him questions—how was feeling, how was he doing, _how are you today, Mickey?_

The first time Mickey managed to croak out, “Fine,” his dad’s face nearly split with satisfaction. 

The second and third and fourth time Mickey said it, though, and was subsequently unable to summon up more words to satisfy his dad’s sudden _need_ for communication, Terry was less pleased. 

“Can’t you just give me a little more than that?” he would say, more of a demand than a plea, and Mickey would feel his throat close up. And soon his needs began to escalate, from Terry wanting to know how Mickey was to increasingly blunt demands for Mickey to tell him more, what he remembered, what he could explain about where he had been, details about his time away.

Mickey didn't know hot to give that to Terry. And then Terry would end up swearing and stomping from the room, or more likely, the house entirely, heading to the bar or out to do one of a million things he seemed to have on the docket these days to keep away from the house, but more importantly from Mickey.

By contrast to Terry's need for interaction, Mandy had been avoiding him. Mickey wasn’t quite sure of why she was mad at him, but he knew that she had been staying in her room more often, and more importantly, had not been inviting Ian over to the house to hang out. 

Mickey was getting desperate. He decided to make a move.

When he found her in her room she was sitting slouched on her bed, a can of beer in one hand as she listlessly flipped through a magazine with the other. It was hot, hotter than it had been yet this summer, and the entire house felt thick and gooey with it. 

Mickey stood in the doorway, his jaw clenched, desperately trying to force the words out. It was—not easy exactly, with Ian, but it was _possible_ , he could open his mouth and make it happen. He’d even managed to get a few words out for his dad. Why was it so much more difficult with his sister?

Eventually Mandy glanced up, spooking slightly when she noticed him hovering. “Yikes,” she breathed. “Warn a girl, good god.” She put a hand to her chest, exhaling dramatically. Then she tilted her head, smiling at him. “What’s up?”

That was the kicker too, that Mandy still asked him questions, that she, more than anyone in his family, still kept up the theater that Mickey would fall back into conversation naturally, given enough time. 

He gritted his teeth, frustrated. 

“You hungry or something?” Mandy prodded. “I think we got some freezer pizza, if you’re up for it.” She set the beer and magazine aside and got up. 

Mickey pinched his own leg hard, the pain a shock that unlocked the tight spring of his jaw.

“Okay,” he said.

Mandy’s eyes went wide. She took a step toward him, then froze. “Okay?” she repeated faintly.

“Okay,” Mickey parroted.

“Okay!” Mandy smiled, laughing like the mindless exchange was the most brilliant thing she’d ever heard. Mickey’s own mouth quirked microscopically.

She came toward him in a rush and brought her arms up like she was going to hug him, but when Mickey tensed reflexively she stopped, considering. Then she brought her fist up, holding it in front of Mickey’s chest uncertainly. “Maybe just a fist bump?” Mickey considered, then tapped his knuckles delicately to hers. Her smile broadened. “Hell yeah!” She looked ready to burst with pride. “ _Hell yeah_ , Mickey.” 

Starting for the kitchen, she threw over her shoulder, “Come on, I’m going to make you the best goddamn celebration freezer pizza the world has ever known.”

After that celebratory lunch, wherein Mandy chattered happily at Mickey and beamed every time he offered an “okay” or “sure” in response, it felt like something shifted in Mickey’s chest. 

Slowly, so slowly he didn’t quite notice it at first, he stopped feeling compelled to stay in his room all day. He still liked the comforting confines of his space between dresser and bed, but he didn’t feel the tethering pull in quite the same way. 

The living room and the kitchen and the rest of the house stopped feeling quite like a vast expanse of threatening space, and more like…his. _His_ space, like the bubble of open air he felt he was entitled to had expanded beyond a few square feet, making him safe to test the boundaries that hung, invisible, just at the horizon of his vision. 

Cautiously, Mickey started venturing into the living during the day, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. Colin and Joey watched him in shock. Iggy looked somewhat outraged. But once Mickey settled down, facing the living room, wrists hanging on his bent knees as h (he) studied the dirty carpet, his brothers slowly went back to ignoring him.

Or at least, it felt like they were ignoring him, and Mickey did his best to ignore them back, acclimating himself to this new increase in his available space. Until a week or so later, when it was clear he was not as invisible to his brothers’ notice as he thought. 

“I bet it’s not even him,” Iggy said one afternoon, voice sour. 

It took Mickey a few seconds to realize the “him” in that sentence was _him_. That Iggy was talking about Mickey. 

“What the hell are you even saying, man?” Colin said hazily. He smelled like weed, melting into the couch beside Iggy. Joey was already passed out in the recliner, snoring. 

“I’m saying, how do we even know it’s really him?” 

“DNA…whatever, I’m sure they did DNA stuff at the hospital, you know,” Colin said, gesturing nebulously with both hands, then getting distracted by his hands, pausing to stare at them and wiggle his fingers around.

“I don’t know _shit_ , man,” Iggy said stubbornly. “He could be anybody. We don’t know shit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey could see Iggy shaking his head.

He had a fleeting wish that Mandy was with him, that she could handle this for him. But she wasn’t, she was holed up in her room talking furtively to someone on the phone, and Mickey was on his own in the living room.

“It’s like that fucking movie,” Iggy was saying, snapping his fingers, “the fuck was it called…changeling. He’s like a fucking changeling, we don’t know who he really is.”

“Maybe,” Colin allowed with a shrug.

“And now he’s just living with us, taking advantage of Dad and everybody, like he belongs here or some shit.” Iggy was shaking his head angrily, the motion jerking, making Mickey a little dizzy. “It’s not right.”

Mickey’s eyebrows furrowed. It was almost easier now, because Iggy and his brothers didn’t _need_ him to speak the way his dad and Mandy _needed_ him to. It took the pressure off.

Still, it took him a while to work the words out in his head, and he ran them through a few times to get the tempo right. Finally, he lifted his head, doing his best to look at Iggy but settling on Iggy’s elbow. “Why would I con you all to get into this shithole?”

Iggy paused, in apparent shock at Mickey’s outburst, but it didn’t slow him down for long. “You think you’re really funny, don’t you asshole,” Iggy snapped.

Mandy came wandering out of her room then, probably drawn by the noise, and stopped to take in Iggy glaring at Mickey, and Mickey staring stubbornly at the floor from his place against the wall

“What in the fuck, you guys,” Mandy said, shaking her head tiredly.

“He’s a fucking stranger,” Iggy raged at her, jumping to his feet. “Who the fuck even is this kid?”

“What are you—Iggy, don’t be an asshole,” Mandy snapped, automatically stepping in Mickey’s direction.

“Sure, go ahead and protect, everyone needs to protect poor little lost Mickey, when we don’t know _shit_ about him, fuck.” He yanked at Colin’s arm, dragging his brother to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“But—” Colin started, gazing with longing at the sitcom on the TV, but Iggy just yanked harder.

“ _Now_ , Colin,” he said sharply. With a sigh, Colin got up and followed Iggy out of the house, throwing a vaguely apologetic look at Mandy over his shoulder.

Joey snoozed on in the recliner by the TV.

Shaking her head, Mandy came over and sat on the ground next to Mickey, leaving enough space so that their knees didn’t touch, still always so careful not to touch Mickey against his will.

She let her head thunk against the wall. “Iggy helped look for you, you know. Him and Colin and Joey too, and all the cousins, and Uncle Ronnie and a bunch of Mom’s brothers. The whole neighborhood, too. We all looked.”

Mickey wasn’t sure what that was supposed to prove, because no matter what he did back then, he really seemed to hate Mickey now. “Okay,” he said dumbly.

They were silent for a beat, and then Mandy just shrugged. She nodded in the direction of the screen door where Iggy had stormed off. “Sucks to suck, you know?”

“He’s right,” Mickey said lowly. He didn’t know how to explain exactly what he meant, but Mandy was waiting, eyebrows raised, so he tried anyway. “I’m not me. Not anymore.”

To Mickey’s surprise, Mandy sighed violently and snickered. “The men in this family, I swear to god, you’re all so fucking dramatic.” She turned on her side, facing Mickey more directly. He stared at her chin. “It was three years ago, Mickey,” she said sternly. “People grow up. Even if nothing had happened to you, you wouldn’t be _you_ , that you, anymore. Come on, you have to know that. Mom always talked about how smart you are.” She winced, looking away. “Just—act like it, okay?” 

Her face went dark and closed off at the slipped mention of their mother, like it always did. Mickey’s memories of his mother were the haziest of all his memories from Before. Sometimes it was almost like he’d made her up, hallucinated the image of the dark-haired, tired-eyed woman with Mandy’s face but older that he sometimes saw in his mind.

He watched Mandy tug at the filthy braiding on the carpet. He wondered idly if it had been cleaned, ever, in its lifetime as a floor covering. He thought probably not.

She was obviously struggling with something. He decided that for once, he’d help her out in keeping the conversation going.

“It’s Mom,” he guessed. Mandy went still and raised her eyes to meet his. They were wide in surprise. Mickey hesitated with the urge to pretend like things probably weren’t as grim as they seemed, and then decided fuck it, he might as well say the worst thing he could think of and get it over with. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

She bit her lip and nodded. She seemed to be waiting for him to do something. He wasn’t sure exactly what, if he was supposed to howl in grief, or at least act marginally surprised, but he felt incapable of either.

Mickey knew he should be feeling more. He hated the gap between what he knew he was expected to feel and what he actually felt, which was usually nothing, although it was slowly getting better. At the confirmation that his mom was dead, he concentrated, focusing on the how she was actually _dead_ , not just fucked off to parts unknown, that she’d died while he was away, and he noticed that he did feel something, however muted and tentative. It was comforting, in an odd way.

“Okay,” he said finally.

Mandy gasped out a wet laugh. “Yeah, wasn’t like she was ever around much anyway, right?” She shook her head, smiling humorlessly. “And then when you were gone…everyone was just—it was so sad, Mickey. I know it doesn’t really compare, you know, us being sad while you were—” She swallowed uneasily. “But she was so sad, and Dad too. So Dad got angry and mean, and Mom, she just kind of…she disappeared, too.”

Mickey had a split-second moment of wonder at what it must be like to be Mandy. At least Mickey’s mind resolutely refused to let him recall nearly anything from while he was away, stubbornly assembling a sturdy brick wall separating all the nameless horror that had happened during that time from right now, and while it was disorienting, it felt safe, safer than remembering was like.

But Mandy didn’t have that, Mickey didn’t think she did at least. She seemed to remember every moment of the last three years in sharp, almost painful detail, the designated Memory Keeper for their family, the cost to her own mind be damned.

Then he made himself stop thinking about it. It threatened the careful remove from which he interacted with Mandy, with his family, with his house and his life now that he was back in it. 

He reached out, carefully, slowly, and touched Mandy’s knee. “I’m hungry,” he said.

Mandy smiled in quick relief, seeming as happy as Mickey to fall back into a familiar pattern. “You got it, chief.”

Mickey followed her into the kitchen, and eventually went back into his room, deciding he’d done enough exploring into the rest of the house for that day. Mandy kept him company for a while, and when his dad and brothers trickled back in for the night, Mickey was careful to stay out of their way, waiting for the house to settle into silence for the night.

Then, he went to his window and slipped out, falling onto the pads of his feet in the spongy grass.

He didn’t even hesitate before turning in the direction of the Gallagher house.

 

***

 

Ian woke up suddenly and realized two things. One, it was dark out, the bedroom still bathed in the shadows of the night. 

And two, Mickey Milkovich was standing over his bed, staring down at him with unwavering intensity. 

“Jesus fucking _christ_ ,” Ian slurred, flailing hard enough that his legs got tangled in his sheets and he fell out of bed onto the floor with a thump. 

From the other side of the room, Ian could hear Carl and Lip stirring, the sleepy sounds of his brothers coming awake, but all Ian could do was stare up at Mickey from his sprawl on the floor. 

Mickey looked just as shocked, eyes wide, arms awkwardly frozen his sides, like he was considering whether or not he still had time to escape.

“What the hell?” Lip said muzzily. He sat up in the bunk bed, peering in shock at Mickey standing over Ian. “Ian, the fuck is going on?” 

“Lip?” Carl mumbled, starting to turn over.

Lip leaned over the railing. “Shh, man, go back to sleep.” When Carl settled, Lip hopped onto the ground. He put his hands on his hips, glaring at Mickey. “The fuck are you doing here, man?” 

Mickey looked at Lip, mouth parted in surprise. Ian hauled himself to his feet, stepping in between Mickey and Lip. “It’s okay,” Ian said. “We’ll just go downstairs, it’s okay.” 

“The fuck—what the hell is he doing here, man?” Lip hissed, jerking his chin at Mickey. Before Ian could respond, there was a crooning sound from the corner. 

All three of them turned around to see Liam standing up in his crib, staring at Mickey. “You,” he said calmly. He didn’t look upset at the stranger in the room, but he also looked wide-awake, which posed its own problems for a little kid. 

“And you woke up Liam too, nice one,” Lip said crankily to Mickey. 

“It’s okay,” Ian said yet again, going to Liam’s crib. “I’ll take him for a lap, he’ll settle down.” He swung Liam up onto his hip. “You’ll go back to sleep in no time, right, little man?” 

Liam touched Ian’s chin thoughtfully, which Ian took as tacit consent. He took Mickey gently by the shoulder and led him out of the room. 

Lip was shaking his head in heavy disapproval. _Dude_ , he mouthed. 

 _Sorry_ , Ian mouthed back helplessly, then took Liam and Mickey downstairs. 

In the kitchen, Liam wiggled to be put down and Ian acquiesced, setting him on the floor by his height chair where a stack of books was stacked messily. 

Mickey sat on the floor too and Ian followed suit in quiet surprise. He wanted to ask Mickey _what in the fuck_ he was doing here, and more importantly _how_ he was here, and probably a million other questions too, but Mickey looked distracted, and Ian was too tired and confused to start the inquisition just yet. 

Liam put his hand on Mickey’s knee and looked up at him, and Mickey’s face softened. Ian wondered if maybe it was easier for Mickey to be around babies, free of the cloying expectations that everyone else seemed to have for his recovery. 

But then, Ian considered, watching Liam pat Mickey’s knee idly, it might not be all kids that soothed him. It could just be Liam. Ian knew from indistinct but nonetheless traumatizing memories of Debbie and Carl that babies could indeed be awful, including perpetually tearful and clingy, or stubbornly loud and prone to screaming, respectively. 

In contrast, Liam was everyone’s favorite baby, quiet and easygoing and unafraid of strangers or changes in routine. He hadn’t said a single word until he was two and a half and Fiona had started getting frantic, and one morning Lip had said, “Ball. Can you say ball, buddy?” and Liam had looked at Lip and said, “But I don’t have a ball.” 

On the floor, Liam held his picture book up, the one with the lambs on the cover. “Book,” he told Mickey solemnly. 

“Book,” Mickey repeated, just as seriously. 

Ian could die. He settled for creeping closer, settling on his knees by the couch to watch without interrupting whatever painfully adorable interaction he was witnessing. 

Mickey accepted the book from Liam, and Liam moved to settle into his lap. Mickey seemed surprised but he didn’t move to stop Ian’s little brother from climbing all over him, settling in the space by his knees and tilting his head up to stare at Mickey’s chin. “Read, please.” 

Before Ian could decide if he should interject or try and distract Liam from story time (a fool’s errand, in Ian’s experience), Mickey flipped the book open to the first page and started to read out loud. 

It wasn’t the least halting version of “Lambs On Vacation” Ian had ever heard, but Mickey did well enough, reading slowly but gaining confidence as he got going. Ian had a sneaking suspicion Mickey had been practicing on the sly. 

He thought of the library books he’d seen on Mickey’s bed weeks before, that Mandy had apparently checked out for him. Thinking of Mandy made him feel guilty, so he refocused on Mickey and Liam. 

Before the lambs even had a chance to return home from their beach vacation, Liam’s eyes were drooping, and by the last page, he was fast asleep, slumped over in Mickey’s lap, snoring like a baby bear. Mickey glanced at Ian in mild alarm before looking nervously back at Liam. 

“Here,” Ian said, reaching over to gather Liam into his arms, shifting so his brother’s heavy head fell more comfortably on his shoulder. He got up and went to sit at the kitchen table, unsurprised when Mickey joined him and sat at the chair right next to him, their knees touching under the table. 

“How’s Kash?” Mickey asked out of nowhere. 

The question itself, and the fact that Mickey actually said Kash’s _name_ , was such a surprise that at first Ian could only sputter. Eventually he got a hold of himself and managed to stammer, “He’s fine, I guess.” 

Mickey nodded, seemingly filing that information away. “You’ve fucked him?” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Like, for real?” 

Ian didn’t know why he was blushing, but that was neither here nor there, because he was _definitely blushing_ , and he ducked his head to hide the worst of it. He assumed Mickey was talking about more than what they’d done together, although all their sexual encounters had been more intense than any for-real fucking he’d done in the past. 

“Yeah.” Then, his embarrassment making him retort automatically, “Why, haven’t you?” His blush became cripplingly hot as he remembered where Mickey had been for the past three years. “I mean—fuck, I didn’t—” 

But Mickey just waved Ian’s blustering away. “Don’t hurt yourself.” Ian didn’t even have a chance to marvel at that, because Mickey leaned forward, studying Ian intently. His fingers twitched, and his lips moved, as Mickey silently tallied something, assumedly his many conquests, Ian thought, somewhat sourly. “Yeah. I’ve banged some people, I think. I just meant—you fucked your boss? That old guy?” 

Ian blinked. “He’s not that old.” 

“You don’t think that’s weird? Fucking your _boss_?” Mickey said, speaking with more passion than Ian had yet heard from him, and also in what Ian personally thought was a tone of a little too much fucking judgment. 

“Why, you never fucked anybody older than you,” Ian paused to gesture with a flail, “ _before_?” 

Mickey frowned. “Yeah, I guess I did.” He let his head fall slightly to the side. “It feels like it was somebody else who did it though.”

He sat back, his eyes going unfocused. It took all Ian had not to ask him what he was thinking about, but he was learning not to push, to fight his natural instinct to pry. 

And was ultimately rewarded when Mickey opened his mouth again, speaking slowly, picking his way across the words. “It’s weird. It just feels like…I was thirteen, right, and it felt like, yeah, back then thirteen is _old_ , man.” He paused, chewing on his lip. “But now I’m thinking thirteen is so young, like a _baby_ , you know? Sometimes I forget I’m not thirteen now, but then I just _feel_ old, fucking old like my _dad_ is old. So like—how old am I then, really?” 

Ian felt himself frowning, a little overwhelmed by all the words, from _Mickey_ of all people. 

And he was little taken aback by what Mickey was saying. Thirteen didn’t sound that young to him. He was barely sixteen, and he constantly felt far older than his bossy older siblings seemed to think he was. He felt like an adult. Hell, he was in a fucking _relationship_ with an unequivocal adult. If that didn’t make you an adult, what did? 

He didn’t know what to make of the insecurity on Mickey’s face. He didn’t know what it felt like to feel disconnected from your own age like that. 

“I just lost all this time,” Mickey said softly. “Sometimes I still feel like I’m still losing it.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to that, how to make it better, if there even _was_ a way to make it better. So he let the silence stretch on for a while, until he finally blurted out, “Do you want me to break up with him?” He coughed self-consciously. “Kash, I mean.” The very idea made him nervous, and he didn't know why he felt compelled to make the offer—he wondered mulishly if he even  _could_  break up with Kash and still keep his job.

Mickey studied the picture book, flipped the first page back and forth with his fingers. Ian started to think Mickey was just going to ignore the question, but then he turned and looked Ian in the eyes. He was doing that more and more often, Ian noted with satisfaction, like it was getting easier for him.

“Yes,” Mickey said carefully.

“Okay,” Ian said in a rush, nodding, feeling like an idiot but wanting Mickey to know that he was serious. “Okay. I will, then.”

“Good,” Mickey said. He looked down again, but not before Ian saw Mickey smile.

From the doorway, Lip cleared his throat. “Alright weirdos, time to wrap it up,” he said. He came to gather Liam’s sleeping form from Ian’s arms. “You should probably get back home before your dad wakes up, right?” he asked Mickey, who nodded and stood up. Lip shook his head and took Liam upstairs, leaving Ian alone with Mickey in the kitchen.

“Bye, Ian,” Mickey said.

Before he could move, Ian reached out and touched his elbow, wrapping his fingers around when Mickey didn’t pull away. “Um, I just—it was good to see you,” he said awkwardly. He squeezed gently. Mickey studied him carefully, then let the corner of his mouth turn upward.

“Bye, Ian,” he said again, and this time Ian released his arm and watched him walk out the back door.

In his bedroom, after Mickey left in the early morning light, Ian allowed himself to wallow in the strange, jittery wave of his feelings. He couldn’t get comfortable in bed, switching from his back to curling on his side, then flopping onto his stomach. 

It was like his space had been invaded, somehow, even though it made him feel guilty and selfish to even put it into words like that. It would make sense that Mickey wouldn’t have the same boundaries though, he reasoned, maybe it wasn’t fair to expect him to follow the same rules. 

“You’re allowed to tell him to stop breaking into the goddamn house,” Lip said flatly.

Ian flinched, completely unaware that Lip was awake and watching him from across the room. He lifted his head, peering across the room to where Lip had propped himself up in his bunk bed, eyeing Ian testily.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ian said, more biting than he’d meant to. And it wasn’t, not the breaking-in thing, not really. It was something deeper that was nagging at him, something that he was having a hard time putting into words.

“Then why are you wiggling around over there like you got bed bugs?” Lip paused, frowning in worry. “You don’t think you got bed bugs again though, right? Shit, I can’t go through washing all our shit ten times again, man, I won’t do. I’ll give myself up to the vermin, I don’t care, it’s not worth the hassle.”

“Jesus, no, I don’t have bed bugs again. Calm down.” Ian turned onto his side, cradling his face so he could see Lip more comfortably.

“Then what’s your deal, man? Are you that worried about Mickey Milkovich lurking around our house at all hours of the night? Should _we_ be worried? Is the guy dangerous?”

“No,” Ian protested, then again with more force, “ _No_. Not even.”

What Ian _was_ starting to worry about though, he realized belatedly, was bigger than just tonight. It was the rules of whatever it was he was doing with Mickey. What he was allowed to demand, or want, or even request, as the Piece B to Mickey’s Piece A in whatever half-broken approximation of a misfit toy they were coming to comprise together.

His first instinct earlier had been to tell Mickey to stop coming to the Gallagher house at night when everyone was asleep. On its surface, it seemed like a reasonable request. _I like you, but please don’t ghost around my home while I’m unconscious, thank you._  

But could he say that to Mickey? Here was this boy, this quiet, angry, half-wild boy, who had trusted _Ian_ of all people to be the person he haunted at night. Not even to wake him up, just to wander around the same space Ian occupied, like that was all Mickey needed. Like _Ian_ was enough, to soothe Mickey or make him feel calmer in the middle of the night or whatever it was Ian was doing, however ineffectually or unintentionally. 

Ian didn’t think he’d ever been _enough_ for someone else in quite that way before. 

But in trying to maintain this delicate new ecosystem they were assembling together, Ian’s chief concern was not upsetting the balance in a way that would drive Mickey away. He wondered if Mickey had the same concerns about Ian, about keeping him within the orbit at the expense of his own immediate impulses. 

He wondered if Mickey even _could_ have those concerns in the way Ian did, and he worried that it would always be that way. Ian twisting away to give Mickey space, and Mickey accepting the land grab without complaint or reciprocation. 

“I can hear you silently spiraling from here,” Lip said, huffing out a laugh. 

Ian looked at his brother, imploring him to understand. “Lip, he’s just been through so much shit,” Ian tried to explain, sounding desperate to his own ears, because how could he possibly explain the enormity of what he was coming to believe had happened to Mickey? 

Lip nodded. “I know,” he said. He slithered off the bunk bed and hopped to the floor, padding over to Ian and flinging himself on top, making the mattress whine threateningly. “I know he’s been through a lot,” he acknowledged when he was settled, voice lower now that he was sprawled out next to Ian. “And I feel for the guy. But he’s not my brother, man. You are.” He nudged Ian’s shoulder with his own for emphasis. 

“I just don’t really know what I’m doing,” Ian admitted weakly. “It’s fine for a while, and then I start thinking about what I’m actually _doing_ —” 

“Good thing you don’t do that very often, you know, with the thinking,” Lip joked, chortling when Ian flicked him on the ear.

“—and then I kind of, I don’t know. Get overwhelmed.” He shrugged helplessly, sighing. Lip sighed too, mimicking him.

They lay quietly together for a moment. Ian tilted against Lip slightly just to better feel the solid warmth of his brother beside him, and Lip let him. 

“It’s like he imprinted on you, like a duckling or something,” Lip said after a while.

That made Ian snort out a laugh. “It’s kind of the other way around, actually.”

After Ian fell back asleep, he dreamt of ducks, and then of flying, and then of being trapped somewhere cold and dark. When he woke up panting, he couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Instead he laid awake in bed for the rest of the night until his brothers and sisters began to stir. 

 

***

 

Mickey met Ian on the roof of the abandoned building a few days later. It was becoming their official meeting spot, quiet and removed enough from the rhythms of the neighborhood that Mickey could actually begin to relax.

He needed to relax, especially after another painful non-conversation with his dad earlier that night had erupted into a messy, overwrought debacle Mickey would just as soon forget had ever happened, the grand finale of Terry’s impatient frustration culminating in him slamming out of the house toward the Alibi when Mickey had failed to translate his new ability to speak into anything resembling memory.

(“Just _try_ , goddamnit, just try and tell us what you remember,” Terry had boomed, hands tightening around Mickey’s shirt.

“Dad, stop,” Mandy cried in alarm, pulling on Terry’s shirt, but he was determined, focused only on Mickey. 

“I don’t,” Mickey stammered, twisting away from his dad as best he could, “it’s not, I can’t—”

“You need to _try_ , Mick,” Terry said, his voice going strained. “We can’t, I can’t _help_ you, there’s nothing—you need to try.”) 

He’d slipped out as soon as Terry was gone, Mandy warily watching Mickey disappear into his bedroom so he could sneak out the window.

Ian wasn’t always at the abandoned building when Mickey went. Sometimes Mickey sat for a few hours, staring out at the neighborhood, marveling at the fact that he was able to focus for such long stretches of time anymore without drifting. It wasn’t as soothing sitting there without Ian, but it wasn’t the worst.

Luckily, tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

“Hey, dude,” Ian said, climbing up the steps. Mickey turned his head in acknowledgement, waiting as Ian approached and dropped down next to him on the ledge. 

Ian stared out over the edge for a while, then nudged Mickey with his shoulder. “What’s up with you? You’re even moodier than normal.”

Mickey darted an annoyed look in Ian’s direction, but Ian was grinning, wide and open like a puppy, and Mickey let himself lean into Ian’s space.

They were silent for a while, Ian not pushing for more, Mickey unspeakably grateful for the gift of Ian’s patience.

Eventually Ian made a humming sound and wrapped a long, skinny arm around Mickey’s shoulders, drawing him into Ian’s side. Even though the prickly heat was making them both sweat, Mickey let him, leaning heavily into the touch. 

It felt so painfully, excruciatingly _nice_ that a mean corner of Mickey’s brain couldn’t stop wondering if this was all a long, extended hallucination.

“I don’t want to remember anything,” he said suddenly. 

He heard Ian’s thoughtful intake of breath. “Okay,” Ian said. “Does that mean you _are_ remembering things, though?”

“No,” Mickey said quickly, a little crossly. It was almost a lie.

“Okay, chill, just asking,” Ian replied, kicking out his foot to hook an ankle over Mickey’s shins where they dangled over the building. Mickey figured it should be feel suffocating, Ian’s body slowly enveloping his, but instead it made him feel grounded. Secure in his own body as Ian wrapped him in his.

“I don’t remember a lot,” Mickey said after a moment, qualifying reluctantly. And even that was a pretty big hedge, because in reality he remembered almost nothing. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, that it was okay that he couldn’t tell his dad what he remembered because there wasn’t anything to tell, his mind was safely devoid of all details from when he was away, it was a completely blank space. 

It was a baffling enough concept to admit to himself, he could only imagine how unbelievable it would sound to an outside observer. And it was even harder now, when he thought that maybe, that comforting blankness in his memory might be showing some cracks.

“That’s okay that you don’t remember,” Ian said easily, which made Mickey huff a little, because was it okay, was it _really_? It seemed like a lot of people in his life were pretty invested in trying to get him to not only recall, but then describe, everything that had happened to him, and he didn’t really know what to tell them. 

“My dad wants me to,” Mickey said. “So does Mandy. The people from the hospital.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Ian reasoned. “They want to help you.” 

“They just want to _know_ ,” Mickey insisted, unsure how to explain it, instinctually resistant to everyone’s crushing _entitlement_ to his life, his memories, whether he could even access them or not.

Ian paused. “That makes sense too, I guess.” He started swinging his foot in a gentle tempo, bringing Mickey’s legs with him so they were moving together in the open air. “What happened to you, it’s so.” He let out a low whistle. “It’s so hard to even imagine. People just want—they want to understand, I guess.” He tipped his head so it pressed to Mickey’s temple. Mickey let him, drinking in the extra point of contact. “I guess I want to understand, too.”

“How can you?” Mickey asked, honestly curious. How could anyone? He barely understood, and he'd _been_ there.

He didn’t realize he was breathing hard until Ian’s arm around him loosened, giving him space. He looked down at his chest, at the way it rose and fell in harried, jerky heaves of breath, and looked helplessly at Ian, unsure how to make it stop.

“Hey, whoa,” Ian said gently, spreading his hand like a star on Mickey’s chest. “Pump the brakes.”

It took Mickey a while to calm down, long enough that he had a panicky moment wondering if this was how he was going to breathe forever, if it was possible to never feel normal again. But then, as he was panicking, the compressions of his lungs began to slow of their own volition, and he exhaled slowly. He didn’t immediately need to pant again. He clenched his fists in his lap, relief washing over him in a bright-white wave.

“Welcome back,” Ian said. He put a careful hand on Mickey’s leg, his fingers hanging lax. When Mickey continued to breathe normally, Ian started swinging their legs together over the side of the building again.

Thoughts tangled together in Mickey’s mind, and it was a full five minutes before he could sort through the words enough to speak.

“I can’t remember the way they want me to remember,” Mickey said unsteadily. “I don’t _want_ to.”

“No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do,” Ian said solemnly.

Mickey thought that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. He wanted to tell Ian that, that it was a stupid thing to say but even more dangerous to actually believe, but Ian moved to cup his face in both hands, moving in slowly to kiss his mouth.

Mickey let him, letting his mind go quiet as Ian’s mouth moved against his for while. He let Ian kiss him until they were lying on the rough concrete of the roof, Mickey holding Ian down as Ian arched into the weight of Mickey on top of him, rutting clumsily and desperately until Ian gasped against his mouth as he came, Mickey’s eyes going wide as he tried to memorize Ian's face, and then squeezing shut as Mickey came himself.

After, though, when they’d roused themselves from their sex stupor, Ian reluctantly heading home when they parted ways a few blocks from the building, Mickey he get Ian’s words out of his head. The idea that Mickey might be in ultimate control of what he did, what he remembered, what he told anyone about what had happened, was laughable. But he couldn’t stop turning it over, examining it, looking at it from every angle.

He reached his house and paused, deliberating if he should climb back in through his window, if he should keep up the charade that he never left the house without his dad’s explicit say-so. It was late, but he saw lights through the front window. Most of his family was probably awake anyway, maybe even Terry, the thought filling him with mild dread.

He exhaled, thinking of Ian, and felt marginally calmer. He ignored his usual path to his back window and walked up the front steps.

When he opened the door he could tell Terry was drunk, like there was a harsh, vibrating energy coming off the paint on the walls. 

In the living room the TV was blaring baseball, Mickey’s brothers piled on the couch before it and chattering to each other like chickens. Terry was stretched out in the recliner, a ramshackle pyramid of empty beer bottles stacked beside him. Mandy was curled onto a footstool in the back, eyes on a magazine. She glanced up when Mickey walked in, face tense. She made a pained face in his direction, but he was already so anxious he didn’t really know what it meant.

From his recliner, Terry glanced over blearily, then laughed, the noise surprisingly shrill for such a solid man. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he said. Mickey froze, and that only seemed to irritate Terry further. “Oh, you didn’t think we’d catch on, with you slipping out all the time? You’re not nearly that slick, son, let me tell you.”

"Hey, is that my hoodie?" Joey asked suspiciously, but Mickey ignored him, slinking over to the wall.

Mickey moved to sit down, but then decided to stay standing. It felt safer, more powerful, somehow. He took a breath.

“I remember being in the dark.”

His voice wasn’t particularly loud but it seemed to suck all the air out of the room anyway. His brothers stopped talking to each other, and the only sound was the baseball game. His dad sat frozen for a moment or two, then slowly lifted the controller to turn the sound off on the TV.

“I remember it was small, and I was in the dark. Even when it was daytime, it was still pretty dark.”

He closed his eyes, straining for something, knowing that he’d need more than that to satisfy his dad’s voracious need to _know_. And he wanted to, he realized, he wanted to give his dad this, some tiny scrap of what it had been like while he was away.

“I remember…cars. Trucks, maybe. I could hear them. They weren’t close.”

The room was so silent he could hear someone fiddling with the label on their bottle of beer.

“I remember they fed me.” Not much, barely anything some days, like they forgot he was out there, but always enough to keep him going. “I never saw them, though.” 

Terry interrupted at that point. “Never?” The leather chair squeaked like he was leaning closer to hear Mickey better. “You never saw their faces? Not in three years?”

Mickey wrapped his arms around his body more tightly, needing the pressure. He pretended it was Ian holding him and it was easier to concentrate. 

“Maybe in the beginning?” He frowned, trying to recall, but it was useless. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

He opened his eyes. His family was gaping at him. All three of his brothers were open-mouthed while Mandy seemed horrified. His father looked desperate.

“How can you…Mick, you have to remember something else, anything about who did this,” Terry pressed. He sounded choked up, frustrated. Mickey could relate.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said miserably. 

“But how can you remember some of it? Why couldn’t you remember it before?”

It was Iggy, of all people, who intervened. “I mean…that would make sense, wouldn’t it?” he ventured, grudgingly.

“The fuck you mean, it would make sense,” Terry said harshly.

“Well, why would he be able to remember everything perfect right away?” He looked at Mickey, who just stared back at him in surprise. “It’s like…when someone tells a story about someplace you were at one time, but you don’t remember any of it. But then as the other person like, _tells you_ about that time, then all of sudden you remember, like oh _yeah_ , that _was_ me. I was there.” Everyone was staring at Iggy in fascination now, and he shrugged, obviously uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny of his entire family. “And Mickey didn’t have anyone else, so he’s just—there’s no one to remind him of anything, you know? He has to, like, remind himself.”

Mickey just sat there, a little blown away by the simple elegance of Iggy’s reasoning. He’d never really thought of it that way before, but it made sense. And it filled him with sudden indignance—why should his dad expect Mickey to be able to remember anything so easily? His dad couldn’t even remember any of his kids’ birthdays, or he hadn’t been able to, Before.

“I just—goddamnit, if we had more to go on we could, I don’t know, help find the assholes who did this,” Terry said, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes, voice still rough with drink. “If he could just _remember_ more.”

Something deep inside Mickey’s chest jerked painfully, like someone had grabbed for his innards and twisted. He winced, stepping away from the wall. He needed to get out of this house, away from his dad and his disappointment, away from trying to _remember_ anything when all he wanted was to forget it, forever.

Terry saw Mickey moving toward the door again and struggled to sit up in his recliner. “Mick, I’m not mad at you,” he said gruffly. “It’s only—Mickey, would you just _wait_ —”

But Mickey was already out the door and down the steps, the sound of his dad’s voice receding rapidly behind him.

He got to the Gallagher house in record time and let himself in through the kitchen. It was strange, how comforting it felt just to be in Ian’s house. The downstairs was empty but he could hear people moving around upstairs.

He loped up the stairs, trying to stay silent. He passed the bathroom like a shadow, hearing what sounded like Ian’s sisters bickering quietly from behind the door. He darted down the hallway to Ian’s room and let himself in, breathing jerkily.

Ian was sitting on his bed looking at his phone. He looked up at Mickey in surprise.

“Oh,” he said, “hey.”

Liam was asleep in his crib and his other little brother was conked out on the bottom bunk. Lip opened one eye to glare in Mickey’s direction, seeming unsurprised and unimpressed by Mickey’s sudden arrival. 

“You okay?” Ian said, standing up, his face going soft with concern. 

Mickey nodded absently, because he was, now, or at least he felt better now that he was free of his own house and safely ensconced in Ian’s.

“Do you want…you want to talk about it?”

“Ian, it’s midnight, and I have to work tomorrow,” Lip grumbled from his bunkbed.

Ian ignored Lip completely, putting a hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “You want to stay over?”

Mickey nodded again and automatically went to settle himself in the tight, safe-looking space between the foot of Ian’s bed and the wall under the window. He knelt, considering the best way to wedge himself into the tight space.

Behind him, he heard a pointed exhale. From his crouch on the floor, Mickey turned around in question. Ian had his hands on his hips, chin jutting out a little. “Nope,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Mickey froze completely, staring up at Ian. “Absolutely not…what?”

“I mean I am _absolutely not_ sleeping on the floor with you,” Ian said. “I fucking like the shit out of you, dude, but I am not. Sleeping. On the _floor_.”

“That’s okay,” Mickey said, still confused. 

“No, it’s not okay,” Ian argued back. “I want to sleep with you, if you’re cool with it, but I think we need to try moving this party to a bed.”

“You want to sleep with me?” Mickey asked. He knew he was probably being weird about this somehow, but he wanted to hear it again. It made him feel warm, good in a way he never wanted to lose.

Ian smiled wryly, his cheeks going rusty colored. “Yeah, man. I do.” 

Across the room, Lip groaned from his bunk bed. “Everything about this conversation is the worst part of this conversation,” he muttered and turned so his back was facing the room.

“So stop listening, nosy,” Ian told him, and looked back at Mickey. “I’m just saying, I know you’re not used to it, but let’s try, like—Band-Aid style. Just rip it off.”

Feeling jittery with excitement, Mickey let Ian lead him to the narrow twin bed and push him gently down on the mattress. He bodily arranged Mickey in the space closest to the wall and climbed in after him, curling on his side with his back facing Mickey. 

In the tight confines of the bed, caught firmly between Ian’s body and the wall, Mickey felt immediately calmer. He wondered how Ian knew to do that, to put him in a position where he felt instantly safe.

For a while all Mickey could hear was their soft breathing in the quiet bedroom. Then, “You can’t keep sneaking into my house without asking,” Ian whispered. He sounded tense, like he expected an argument.

Mickey inched closer, letting his nose just touch the skin at the nape of Ian’s neck. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Ian said in surprise. 

Mickey tangled their feet together and repeated, “Okay. If that's what you want, then okay.” Before he could hear Ian respond, he closed his eyes, and fell suddenly, almost violently, to sleep.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mad props go out to my lovely betas: [lvjm87](http://lvjm87.tumblr.com/) and [dombirds](http://dombirds.tumblr.com/). You dudes are the best. :)
> 
> Thanks reading, and I hope you're enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying sharing it with y'all. As always, updates on Mondays. Come chill on [Tumblr](http://ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of past child abuse.

*** 

**August**

***

 

Ian was at the Kash N Grab, and he was trying to figure out what words to use to break up with Kash.

Meanwhile, Kash seemed to be completely occupied with trying to figure out how to get Ian to lock up the store for twenty minutes and go in back and fuck.

They were at somewhat of an impasse.

“Hey, come on,” Kash murmured, letting his hand drift to cup Ian’s hip, rucking up the bottom of his T-shirt so his hand rested on Ian’s skin. “It’s been so long since we got to be together.”

Kash’s hand was warm and gentle on Ian’s waist, so different than how Mickey handled him. It was careful, almost proprietary, and Ian felt profoundly confused, trying to figure out in the moment if he still liked being touched this way, or if he preferred the rough, combative way Mickey held him down sometimes, or if he liked both _equally_ —he couldn’t decide, and he was getting sidetracked from his real mission here.

“Linda’s gonna kill us both if we miss out on any customers,” Ian said, holding perfectly still. Then, frowning thoughtfully, he leaned sideways a little, pressing into Kash’s touch with an almost clinical detachment, trying to figure out if he still liked it. If he still liked _Kash_ , as much as he did only a few months ago.

“I miss you, though,” Kash whispered, daring to lean forward and nuzzle Ian’s ear with his nose. Ian saw Kash glance up at the camera, judging the angle of the lens, and then felt Kash’s hand slide down and around to cup the front of Ian’s jeans. 

Ian felt himself getting hard under the stimulation, even as he flushed, embarrassed that he could be so easily distracted. 

“I’ll get the door,” Kash said into Ian’s neck, squeezing Ian’s hardening cock firmly. Then he released Ian and stepped away, smiling in excitement. Ian watched him hurry to throw the lock on the front door. He seemed bigger than Ian remembered, shoulders broad and heavy, his heft and solid build what had attracted Ian in the first place, but now, he just looked…old. Adult. 

“If I didn’t want to sleep with you anymore, would you still let me work here?”

For a split second, Ian was hit with the urge to whirl around and try to spot the intruder who had spoken the words, with Ian’s _voice_ , no less.

As Kash froze, turning slowly around to face him, Ian was forced to acknowledge that it was _him_ , Ian had blurted that out, and now it was just hanging there between them like a thick, uncomfortable rain cloud. 

He watched Kash’s throat work as he swallowed. “Ian,” Kash said. “Do you. You know that you don’t have to.” He swallowed again. “What are you saying, here?”

Ian blinked and looked down at the counter beside the register, studying the stickers and thick plastic sheeting, his whole body going hot at being put so unexpectedly on the spot.

He felt rather than heard Kash coming closer, stopping a foot or so from where Ian sat on the stool behind the counter.

“Ian, what’s going on with you?” Kash put his hand on the counter beside where Ian was picking at the corner of a sticker about food stamps. Ian stared at it, caught by how the coarse hairiness of the top of Kash’s hand compared to his own thin, pale, spindly fingers. “You’ve been acting different for a while now.”

Ian kept staring at the counter, keeping still and silent, wondering distantly if this was how Mickey felt most of the time, if he thought staying quiet would keep him invisible from everyone’s eyes.

He felt Kash rest a hand on Ian’s shoulder. It was warm and heavy and part of Ian wanted to close his eyes and just lean into it, let everything keep going like it was, take back everything he’d said and just go into the back room with Kash for a quick fuck. 

He thought of what they’d learned in middle school in their Chicago History unit, about how back in the olden days the city had changed the direction of the flow of the entire Chicago River, using engineering or math or something. He felt like he was standing in the middle of a coursing river now, trying futilely to change the direction of its flow without the aid of any special skills, just his own bumbling words and skinny, gangly body.

“You know I wouldn’t fire you if you didn’t—” Kash coughed, stepping forward and lowering his voice. He was nearly whispering into Ian’s neck again. “You know that, right?”

Ian didn’t know what he knew. It wasn’t like they’d sat down and hashed out any hard and fast rules when they’d first started screwing around, aside from the unspoken but essential edict of Don’t Let Linda Find Out.

He nodded anyway, sucking his lips into his mouth so he wouldn’t say anything else stupid.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” Kash said slowly. He rubbed his thumb along the bump of a vertebrate on Ian’s back. “And that’s probably my fault, I know I shouldn’t have—well. This isn’t exactly a standard hook up, you know?”

Even staring at the counter, Ian could see Kash smiling crookedly, that familiar sheepish grin.

“Yeah,” Ian said, sounding raspy, because it felt weird just letting Kash dangle out there without adding anything of his own. He was fumbling this, his promise to Mickey playing like an accusation in his head, and he wasn’t sure how to save the moment, how to course correct back toward breaking things off neatly, professionally, maturely.

Abruptly, Kash stepped back. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” he suggested, voice stilted.

Startled, Ian finally looked up from the counter. Kash was still smiling, but it looked grim. Ian glanced at his phone where it sat under the register. He still had three hours left in his shift. Was Kash offering him the option to go home, or was he telling Ian to leave? Would Ian still get paid for the three hours?

He wanted to ask, but he also wanted to flee into the afternoon and pretend this uncomfortable and failed attempt to break up with Kash had never happened.

He stood up from the stool. “Are you sure?” he asked Kash, shoving his hands into his pockets so his shoulders hunched. 

“Sure,” Kash said. “You’ve been working hard, you deserve the break.”

Ian grabbed his phone, taking a tentative step toward the door. “You’re sure?” he checked again. Kash laughed, sounding fondly exasperated, and best of all, familiar. Maybe Ian could still salvage this, make it so working at the Kash N Grab wasn't the most horribly awkward thing in the world.

“I’m _sure_ ,” Kash said, pulling Ian into a one-sided hug as Ian walked by. Ian laughed too, feeling strangely relieved that the whole thing hadn’t devolved into a fight. Maybe this was better, just quietly transitioning from fucking around to being boss and employee again. Maybe this could work. Maybe Ian was some kind of stealth breakup genius.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ian said, chancing a smile. 

“Tomorrow,” Kash repeated, making it sound like a promise. He pecked a quick kiss to the side of Ian’s head.

Ian’s smile froze on his face. He didn’t know if head-kissing was the sign of a successful breakup or what.

“Okay, bye,” Ian said. He darted out of the store.

He was barely down the block before his phone was to his ear and he was dialing Mandy’s number.

“You want to meet me at the park?” he asked as soon as Mandy answered. He knew he sounded out of breath. He couldn't stop power walking down the street. He didn't want to be alone with the thoughts in his head right now.

“Sure, I got some nitrous if you want to get high,” she said. Ian wanted to tackle her to the ground with a hug just for that simple piece of easy, uncomplicated acceptance. “I’ll bring Mickey.” 

Ian smiled, relieved that he didn’t have to get all weird and specifically request that she bring her brother with. Man, but Mickey needed to get his own phone.

He beat them to the playground and collapsed onto a swing, rocking back and forth idly, replaying his afternoon against his will. It felt more surreal the longer he tried to dissect it. 

He heard Mandy before he saw her. “Hey, sexy!” He looked up and saw her striding toward him over the woodchips, plastic bag of whippets in her hand. Mickey wandered behind her, drowning in a pair of baggy jeans and a loose-fitting tank top. Kid needed some clothes that fit, Ian noted absently, feeling weirdly tender as he watched the careful way Mickey picked his way across the park

Mandy kicked at Ian's knee playfully when she reached his spot on the swings. “Lemme get on that swing with you baby, you look _good_.”

“You’re weird,” he told her, stifling his giggle with minimal success. He looked at Mickey. “Hey, how’s it going?”

Mickey shrugged and sat down on the swing beside Ian. It was still odd sometimes, pretending like they weren’t doing anything when they were around Mandy, that they weren't hanging out almost three times a week in the middle of the night their abandoned building, or at the baseball diamond, or in the Gallagher living room some nights when Ian was too sleepy to wander around town with Mickey.

Looking at him now, all he could think about was Mickey falling asleep in his bed, the shape of him pressed to Ian's back. But Mandy was here, watching Ian with bright, laughing eyes, and he forced himself to be cool, for once in his life. 

“I’ll show you weird,” she said, pulling a whippet out of the bag. “You want to go first?” 

Ian shrugged, and she smirked. "Such a gentleman," she said, and inhaled deeply from the canister. She looked at Mickey speculatively. “You want?” 

It was on the tip of Ian’s tongue to say it probably wasn’t a good idea, but he bit back the words, reminding himself he wasn’t Mickey’s goddamn babysitter. If the dude wanted to get high, he could get high. 

But Mickey shook his head. “I’m good.”

“More for us,” Mandy said, and took another hit. She handed the second canister to Ian. Ian inhaled sharply, letting the heady, almost fizzy feeling of nitrous float through his brain, calming his unsettled thoughts about earlier, making everything feel momentarily hazy and furry and soft. 

“How was work?” Mandy asked, settling herself in a swing, getting a rhythm going. Mandy had always loved to swing high, while Ian preferred to pull himself back and forth on the ground, never gaining lift off.

It took him a second to even remember. All he could recall was feeling nervous, and then feeling uncomfortable, and then leaving early. Getting high always made his memory primal, limited to simple emotions. It made it hard to retell to someone later, even to Mandy. “It was okay,” he hedged. Beside him, Mickey surreptitiously reached a foot out so his raggedy tennis shoe touched Ian’s. Still feeling pleasantly high, Ian smiled to himself and pressed back. He wished he could reach over and hold Mickey’s hand.

“Easy on the details, Dickens, I’m a little overwhelmed over here,” Mandy said on a laugh.

Ian shook his head. “You are really leaning into the summer reading list,” he said.

“It’s not like me and Mickey have got anything better to do this summer.” She pumped her legs, gaining height. “It’s either chill at the library or sit and stare at each other at home until we both lose our minds.”

Ian glanced at Mickey, who was staring at where their shoes touched. Ian hadn’t known they’d been going to the library. It made him think of Mickey reading Lambs On Vacation to Liam, the soft, hesitant cadence of his voice feeling out the words. 

Mandy kicked the ground on her next swing, jerking to a halt. “Shit, I have to pee.” She vaulted out of the swing. “Sit tight, I’ll be right back.” She trotted off to the public bathroom without a backward glance. Ian wasn’t surprise. Mandy always got really task-oriented when they got high together.

He eyed the whippets lying by the swing, but decided against taking another hit. He wanted to focus on sitting next to Mickey, the feel of sitting quietly together.

Sitting this close to him, all Ian wanted to do was touch him, to reach out and pull Mickey’s swing to his so he could tangle their feet together, but Mandy was only going to be gone for a minute or too, so he held back. 

“So I talked to Kash,” he said instead, after a moment of mellow silence. He forced his mind to settle, waiting for the nitrous high dissipate enough that his memory wasn't so soupy anymore. He watched Mickey go still, his eyes  watchful as he stared at Ian’s knee, waiting for more. “We’re pretty much broken up.”

Mickey did look up at that, giving Ian a doubtful look. “Really,” Mickey said.

“Really,” Ian shot back, frowning. “He said I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do.”

Mickey snorted. “I bet he did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian demanded, annoyed.

Rather than reply, Mickey just looked at him, one eyebrow arching.

“We’re broken up,” Ian said, wishing he didn’t sound so defensive. “Seriously. I talked to him. It’s fine.”

Mickey shrugged one shoulder, turning to look out over the playground. His silence felt judgmental. Ian reached out and shoved him on the arm, feeling testy.

“I’m serious. It’s all cool, now.” He didn’t know why he felt the need to spell it out for Mickey, and the more he tried to explain what he was pretty-sure-almost-positive was his breakup with Kash, the less sure of the whole weird interaction he was. 

Mandy came up from behind the swing set, catching the tail end of Ian’s indignant speech. “What’s all cool now?” She threw herself into the swing on Ian’s other side.

“I’m not seeing Kash anymore,” he told her. Mickey snorted again. Ian resisted smacking him on the shoulder. He glared at him instead. “I’m _not_.”

“Well,” Mandy said, watching them silently bicker with a curious gleam to her eye, “that’s good, I guess. Kash is super creepy.”

“He’s not creepy,” Ian said sulkily, unsure why he was defending him, distracted by Mickey’s lofty expression as he stared at the playground. “We’re just not dating anymore.” 

“Oh, _dating_ ,” Mandy teased. “That’s what we’re calling boning in the back room now? He give you his class ring? You guys going to prom together?”

Ian shook his head, struggling not to giggle. Fucking best friends, seriously, they were the _worst_. “Eat me.”

Mandy’s eyes turned dreamy. “Eating. I remember eating.” She sighed wistfully. “I would kill for some McDonalds right now.” She poked Ian in the side. “Like, I would kill you. Right now. Just for some fries.”

“Okay, stop poking me, we can get food,” Ian said, swatting her away. He gathered up the whippets and let Mandy drain the last canister, then tossed them in the garbage.

He let Mandy grab his hand, swinging their palms together as they walked down the block, talking about this girl she hated from their English class last semester. Mickey trailed just behind Ian’s shoulder. Ian kept catching glimpses of him out of the corner of his eye, glancing back to see Mickey staring fixedly at his shoulder, like a shadow or an overzealous bodyguard. He kept stepping on Ian’s heel, making Ian stumble and turn to glare at him. Mickey just stared defiantly forward. Ian wanted to wrestle him to the ground. Then he wanted to kiss him. He felt confused.

Mandy thought the whole back-and-forth was funny as shit and cackled every time Ian nearly tripped out of his own shoe, but she was high and Ian wasn’t anymore and furthermore he had a feeling the asshole was tripping him on purpose. Mickey seemed irritated about the Kash thing, which Ian sullenly thought was _fine_ , because he was annoyed with Mickey too. 

“If you step on the back of my shoe again, I swear to god,” Ian told him the third or fourth time.

“You swear to god, what?” Mickey said in a low voice, smirking infinitesimally. The taunting lilt to his voice went straight to Ian’s dick, which just annoyed Ian more. 

Not now, boner, Ian told his dick silently, looking archly at Mickey.

Mandy yanked on Ian’s hand. “Cool it, we need to focus on acquiring food.” Her eyes narrowed as McDonald’s came into sight. Ian knew better than to argue. Mandy was on a mission. 

She magnanimously bought them all fries (“It’s cool, Dad left me some money for lunch. He's starting to feel guilty for leaving me on Mickey duty all the time, but joke's on him, because now we all get fries," she said with a regal wave at Ian’s attempt to go for his wallet.) and they settled in the back, Mickey wedging himself into the corner of the booth.

And as Ian watched Mickey suspiciously bite into a French fry for the first time, he grudgingly felt all his irritation begin to drain away.

“Get in there,” Mandy said through a mouthful of food, nodding approvingly as Mickey tore into his pile of fries.

“You okay?” Ian asked, smiling at the way Mickey closed his eyes in bliss as he chewed.

Mickey swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, sounding stunned. “I couldn’t remember if I liked them.” He looked at the fries on his tray reverently. “I definitely like them.”

He watched Mickey annihilate his fries, and then half of Ian's fries, and then when when he felt Mickey's foot rest on his under the table, his face grudgingly apologetic as he stared at Ian across the table, Ian basked in his forgiveness without really understanding what he was being forgiven for.

Later, he couldn’t get their non-argument out of his head though as he lay in bed that night, Lip texting Karen in his bunk bed. He thought he was starting to maybe understand, but it was weird. It felt weird, if that was what Mickey was really worried about. He turned to stare at Lip, waiting for a lull in his texting.

“Mickey thinks Kash is…I don’t know, taking advantage of me,” Ian said haltingly into the dark of the bedroom, quiet save for Carl’s snores.

Lip didn’t respond right away. He reread his last text, then hopped out of his bunk bed and padded over toward Ian, pausing to scoop his baggie of weed out from under the bed frame. He settled onto Ian’s bed, leaning against the wall. 

He shrugged one shoulder as he focused on rolling the joint on his lap. “Well, Mickey would know.” He squinted at the rolling paper, folding it between his fingers to even out the weed. “That’s kind of like, his area of expertise, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” Ian asked, watching Lip roll the joint. 

“You know. Adults being assholes. Exploiting kids. Hurting them.” He waved his free hand around vaguely. “Up to and including abducting them and keeping them in captivity for years at a time, I don’t know man, he probably has a sense for it, now.”

“But it’s not like that. I’m sixteen, I know what I’m doing.” Ian rubbed at his arms uncomfortably. “I’m not some little kid. Kash didn't make me do anything."

That seemed to draw Lip’s attention. He looked up from the nearly finished joint and looked at Ian, eyes narrowing as he studied his little brother. Ian forced himself not to fidget under Lip’s gaze. After a beat, he licked the joint to seal the edges of the rolling paper. He admired his work for a second, then offered it to Ian. “Here, you hit it first. I can practically hear your brain working overtime. You need to chill.”

Ian took a drag from the joint, holding the musky-smelling smoke in his lungs. He handed it to Lip, watched him take a hit. 

“Okay. So, I mean.” Smoke came out of Lip’s nose like a dragon. “You’re, like—you’re doing the fucking, at least. With Kash. Right?” 

Ian nodded warily, unsure what the significance of that was.

“So you’re kind of in charge then, I guess,” Lip said, handing the joint back.

Accepting it again, Ian could feel his face furrowing a little. His brother might know a lot of things about a lot of things, but the dynamics of gay sex seemed to be outside his purview.

Which sucked, because while he thought Mickey was out of line, their non-argument from earlier was making Ian scrutinize his own choices in a way that was making him twitch, and he really wished he had someone to talk to about it all. Someone who knew more than him. That apparently was not going to be Lip.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ian said, and took a final hit from the joint. “I’m in charge.”

"Besides," Lip said as he slipped off of Ian's bed and went back to his own. "Mickey's probably just jealous. You two looked pretty hot and heavy at the Fourth of July thing at the Milkoviches. Maybe that's all it is."

"Maybe," Ian allowed. He could feel the pot pulling him under, but he kept seeing Mickey's face in his mind's eye, the vision of Mickey rapturously rediscovering his love of french fries. As he drifted off, Ian wondered what it mean if you fantasized about someone enjoying fast food instead of thinking about them naked, or jacking off to fantasies of fucking them. He wondered if it was weird. If it said something weird about him.

Probably, he admitted hazily, and fell softly to sleep.

 

***

 

When Mandy first caught Mickey reading in his room, he’d rushed to hide the picture book like he’d been caught looking at porn. 

“Hey there, brother bear,” Mandy said uncertainly, standing in the doorway of Mickey's room and watching him scramble to shove the picture book (it was about fish, and Mickey had already read it three times that morning) under the bed sheets. “What you got?”

Mickey bit his lip. He tried to shrug nonchalantly, except he hadn’t really gotten the hang of nonchalance yet so it just ended up looking like the most uncomfortable shrug in the universe, he was pretty sure.

“What—what’s under there, Mickey?” Mandy said, pointing at the obviously rumpled bed sheets. She reached for it, Mickey going miserably still. “Oh god, I hope it’s not something weird.” She pulled out the book. “Oh. It’s a book.” She looked at Mickey, raising an eyebrow. “It’s just a book. Why are you being so weird?”

“I don’t know,” he said gruffly.

“I mean, it’s okay that you’re reading this,” Mandy said, flipping through the pages of the book. It was about fish and Mickey had read it cover to cover three times already. “I checked it out for you in the first place. I figured you probably remembered how to read, you used to read all the time back before, remember? Iggy and Colin used to give you so much shit for it.” She shook her head. “But then, they were the biggest fucking walnuts on the face of the planet, still are. So who cares what they think, right?”

Mickey curled his knees up from his space at the foot of the bed. He did remember that, vaguely, a dim memory of telling Iggy to shut the hell up and Iggy laughing and calling Mickey a dumb nerd, which even at the time didn’t make sense. 

“I didn’t really know what you would like, so I just checked out something simple,” Mandy said hesitantly, gesturing at the picture book laying between them. “Would you—do you like it?”

Mickey nodded. He did. He’d started dreaming about fish, about being a fish, about swimming through brightly colored coral and softly waving seaweed.

Mandy flipped to the final page of the book, running her finger over the jewel tones of the fish protagonist. “What’s your favorite part?" 

“My favorite part is all of it,” Mickey replied, and then frowned as Mandy laughed.

“Sorry,” she said, biting down on her smile. “You’re just, you’re funny, sometimes. You were funny before, but it’s like—it’s just different now. I like it.”

Mickey just looked at her, daring to dart a look at her eyes, which were soft as they looked at him, before sliding away and studying her shoulder.

He didn’t know what she meant, not really. He didn’t think he was funny. He didn’t remember being funny. He wondered if maybe that was something he’d just lost, forever now, like a toll for being rescued out of the shed in Indiana.

She shut the book firmly, decisive. “Okay. Well. Do you want to pick out some more books on your own?” she asked, like she was inviting him on magical adventure.

Mickey nodded. He thought he could handle going on an adventure that took them out of the house.

And that’s how they ended up going to the Richard J. Daley branch of the Chicago Public Library system for the first time.

It was dinky and smelled like old newspaper and the librarians looked at Mandy and Mickey with deep distrust. A pair of nervous-looking preteens was sorting returned books in the corner, glancing worriedly at the librarians, who were watching the book-sorters with eagle-eyed intensity.

Mandy seemed used to this strange tableau of drama. “Just ignore them, they’re assholes,” she said blithely, ignoring the head library lady’s annoyed huff as she drew Mickey deep in the back by the YA section.

Mickey hunched protectively against the bookshelf, feeling like he was being tested. But Mandy didn’t seem too fixated on his reaction to all the books. She pulled out a book that looked like it was about robots and settled onto a stool to page through it, humming thoughtfully.

After a moment, she looked up at him. “Dude, relax. If you don’t want to pick out a book just yet, take a nap or whatever, I don’t care. You’re not being punished for some unspeakable crime here.” 

It still took him a while to venture on to examining the books, standing stubbornly as Mandy studiously ignored him. She looked so focused, though, getting caught up in the book in her hand. He wondered what that would be like, reading something more complicated than fish tales.

With a beleaguered sigh, he pulled a book out of the shelf at random. It was thicker than the picture books Mandy had brought home that he’d been reading. He held it in his hand, marveling at the heft of it. He felt a spark of excitement. He could read this. He was going to read this. He sat on the floor, propping the book on his knees.

But as he opened it, flipped to the first page, it felt like hitting a wall. The picture books had been easier. Short sentences, easy words, pictures everywhere to explain what the story was about so even if he didn’t know every word he could look at the illustrations and figure it out. 

He reread the first sentence over and over, skimming over one word repeatedly. He could read the rest of the sentence, but not that word. He didn’t know what it meant, or how it was supposed to sound, and the longer he fixated on it, the less sense the rest of the sentence made. 

And that was only one sentence. The first page alone had maybe forty of them, and then the book had over one hundred pages.

He slammed the book closed, making more noise than he meant to but feeling inexplicably satisfied as he threw it on the ground.

Beside him, Mandy startled at the sound. She looked up sharply from her book. “What the hell, Mickey?” she whispered. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey muttered. He sat on the floor, staring at the book lying half-open and crumpled on the ground like a dead animal. 

He didn’t realize she’d settled down beside him until he felt her shoe brush against his knee. She picked up the book with the tips of her fingers, holding it cautiously before them both.

“How’s it going over here?” 

“It’s fine,” Mickey said stiffly. “I’m just fucking stupid. I can’t read.” 

Mandy cocked her head, studying him. “But you were reading this morning.” 

“Yeah, stupid shit. For kids.” 

“Hey. Franklin the Fish is not stupid.”

Mickey gave her collarbone a withering look, then went back to staring down the book in her hand. She sighed, flipping to the first page that had stymied him so effortlessly. 

“Why don’t you try reading it out loud to me?” she suggested after a careful pause.

It was close enough to sympathy that Mickey went still at first, his face flushing hot with shame. But Mandy seemed to read his mind, holding up her hands defensively.

“I’m not saying you have to act out a one-man show here!” she said, eyebrows high. “Just, maybe it will be easier. At least at first. You know, sounding out words and stuff.”

Mickey didn’t remember learning to read when he was little, the same way he didn’t remember learning to talk or walk. No matter how he threw his memory back, it was like he had always known how to do these things. He wished he remembered how he learned in the first place, now.

It had been easy reading out loud to Liam. Even knowing Ian was there, it had felt safe in the dark Gallagher house, most of Ian’s siblings in bed and asleep, no one but one calm baby and one friendly redhead to care if he made a mistake or said a word wrong. 

It shouldn’t feel like the stakes were higher with Mandy, but it did. He didn’t feel the same keen responsibility with Ian, somehow. With Mandy, he was paralyzed at the thought of disappointing his sister.

She was still sitting patiently beside him, her own book held half-open in one hand, a finger marking her spot. With the other she held Mickey’s book open between them, the cover stretching across both their legs. 

With a frustrated sigh, Mickey looked at the book. "Fine," he grumbled. Mandy waited expectantly, and he saw no choice but to give it a shot. “When Mary Lennox was sent to…” He stopped abruptly, stumbling over the same stupid word he couldn’t figure out how to say from before. He looked at Mandy, frowning. “I don’t know that word.” 

She followed where his finger was pointing, and then she frowned too. “Huh. Missile-th. Misselthhhhh….wait.” She started giggling as she exaggerated the lisping sound. “I don’t know how to say it either.”

“Really?” Mickey asked in surprise.

Mandy shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s probably the name of the place, but fuck me if I know how to say it. Want to call it Mistletoe? Like for Christmas?”

Mickey considered, trying to figure out if he remembered what mistletoe meant. He thought of kissing, and then he thought of Ian.

He felt his lips curl.

“Okay. Mistletoe.”

 Mandy knocked his shoulder. “Keep going, doofus.” 

Mickey refocused on the book. “When Mary Len…Len- _nox._ ” He looked at Mandy for confirmation, and when she nodded, he continued. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Mistletoe Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen." 

He stumbled over disagreeable, but it didn’t upset him as much as the Misselthwaite-Mistletoe debacle of earlier. He looked at Mandy again.

“Does that mean they think she’s mean?” He pointed at the sentence, running his finger over the words like they would transmit the correct meaning through his skin. “Because it says ‘looking.’”

“That’s a good clue,” Mandy said. She shrugged. “I think it means she looks ugly, though. These old-timey books, they’re kind of funny like that sometimes.” She pointed at the next sentence. “Keep reading, maybe it’ll make more sense as we get going.”

And Mandy was right, as it turned out. The more Mickey read, he decided that yep, they were talking about how ugly Mary was. It made Mickey smirk a little as he read. He remembered, vaguely, that fairy tales usually had pretty little girls and boys in them, and here was this book about this mean, ugly-looking kid who no one really liked. 

“Mary’s the worst,” Mandy observed absently, but Mickey shook his head, getting caught up in the story.

“Maybe, but everyone she’s knows was mean to her,” he said, staring intently at the words on the page. “Maybe she would have been nice, if people were nice to her.” 

“Or maybe it’s okay that she isn’t nice,” Mandy said. She shifted against the book case, her weight settling slightly more firmly against Mickey’s side, and he was too distracted by the book in his hands to pay too much attention. “Maybe she doesn’t have to be nice, just because people want her to be.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Mickey said, and started reading again. 

It wasn’t effortless, reading out loud to Mandy. Sometimes the words wouldn’t make sense and he didn’t know if it was because the writing was old fashioned or because Mickey himself was stupid. But when he got caught up, Mandy would make him stop and try and retell the story to her so far, or predict what he thought was going to happen next. He knew she was doing it on purpose, trying to distract him so he wouldn’t get frustrated, but it did help him concentrate. It helped that sometimes Mandy got confused too by the language, the names, the rhythm of the words. Even when Mickey didn’t quite understand what he was reading, he liked the way the words sounded as they slipped out of his mouth, the archaic construction of the sentences. No one he knew talked like this, and it sounded exotic to his ears.

He liked reading, he noticed absently. He really, really liked it. It was like going into a trance.

After a cranky librarian shushed them for the second time, Mandy looked at her watch and swore. “Shit, we been here three hours already. We should get home before Dad flips out, if he’s back from the job with Colin and Iggy yet.” She tapped the cover of the The Secret Garden, the book that Mickey was slowly falling in love with. “You want to check this one out?”

Mickey nodded eagerly. Mandy smiled at him as she got to her feet, Mickey following her lead. “We can come back, you know. When you’re finished with that book, we can just come get another one.” 

And they did. Mickey was coming to learn that one thing Mandy wasn’t was a liar, and when she said they would come back, they did. They started slipping away to the library a couple of mornings a week, when Terry and their brothers were still hung over and asleep from whatever nonsense they’d gotten up to the night before, or had left the house altogether on a job out of state.

Terry seemed oddly pleased when Mandy told them where they went. He'd stumbled upon a pile of library books in the hall and given Mandy a look

"The fuck are these?" he asked, picking up one paperback and holding it by the cover, like he was inspecting an insect. "You steal these?"

"No, me and Mickey have just been going to the library some mornings," Mandy said, her words cautious despite the casual tone of her voice. She kept her eyes on the pot of noodles in front of her, stirring. Mickey was sitting in the corner, behind the table. He had The Secret Garden in his lap, but he didn't think his dad knew he was there yet. His dad thought it was weird that Mickey sometimes avoided chairs, preferring the solid feel of the wall or the floor against him, and for some reason Mickey didn't understand, he especially didn't like when he found Mickey crouched in the kitchen. So he stayed quiet, clutching the book, watching Mandy distract Terry as she cooked dinner.

"You have?" Terry looked surprised. Hopeful, almost. "He's been...he's been reading again?"

Mandy smiled to herself. "Mhm. He's not even just reading picture books anymore. He's getting really good." This seemed to be more for Mickey's benefit than their dad's, and Mickey felt himself go slightly warm at the compliment.

"Reading," Terry repeated absently. "That's good. That's probably good, right?"

Mandy shrugged, straining the noodles over the sink in a rusted colander. "I don't think it's bad."

"That's the kind of thing that'll get the social work people off our backs," Terry said. He sounded like he was musing to himself now, and Mandy made a non-committal sound, adding butter and milk to the noodles.

Mickey wondered if the social work people had been on their backs, still. If they had, Terry had been keeping it to himself, along with what they wanted from Mickey, or from his dad. After the last trip to the hospital, Mickey had been cautiously optimistic he'd never have to see another therapist again. It felt like a pipe dream, but so many things in his life now felt fantastical in comparison to the last three years, so who knew. Maybe he was off the hook.

After a final, thoughtful look at the book in his hand, Terry set it back with the others, straightening it so it was in a neat pile. Then he wandered out of the kitchen, never catching sight of Mickey in the corner.

"You should sit in the chair when you're in here," Mandy said softly when their dad was gone. "You know he thinks it's weird when you sit on the floor."

"I know," Mickey said. He hauled himself up, holding the book against his chest. He was too distracted to read anymore just now. Plus, he was hungry. Along with french fries, he was discovering that he really loved mac and cheese, too.

Mandy brought him a bowl and sat down, waiting for Mickey to quit hovering and join her at the table. When he finally did, albeit begrudgingly, she rested her chin in her hand. "So. How's Mary doing?"

And just like that, Mickey was distracted, retelling the chapter he'd read today, getting lost in the idea of girl with her own secret hideaway, that she could go to and leave as she pleased, without anyone keeping her there against her will.

 

***

 

August was almost over, and when Ian got called off work for the third time in a week via a short text message from Kash, he finally caved and called Linda.

“Ian,” she said in answer, sounding surprised. “What’s up?”

“I was just wondering,” he said, but had to stop to clear his throat. Talking to Linda always made him nervous. “I just wanted to make sure there were still enough hours for me to stay part-time at the store.”

There was a pause. “Kash told me you needed time off for ROTC. That’s starting again soon, right? When school starts after Labor Day?"

“Oh,” Ian said, his voice falling. _Oh_. Because he had told Kash he didn’t want to fuck anymore, and so Kash had told Linda he didn’t want to _work_ anymore. He felt incredibly gullible and young, all of a sudden. Like he had missed the biggest, most obvious sign in the world. 

“Is that not correct?” Linda asked. “We hired Sam, the kid who unloads the truck? I got him to pick up the slack, but if you want to come in again, we could probably give you Wednesdays and Thursdays back, if you think you’ll have time.”

Ian opened his mouth to accept, but then hesitated. He wanted to tell Linda to hold on, and then call up Kash and tell him to go fuck himself. Right now though, he knew he should take Linda’s offer and come back to work, just to show Kash he couldn’t manipulate Ian like this. He couldn’t punish Ian just because Ian wanted to break up.

But the silence stretched on, Ian unable to get the words out.

“Is everything okay, Ian?” Linda said after a moment. Her normally harsh voice softened somewhat. “If you’re too busy, don’t feel like you have to keep working. School stuff comes first.” 

It was so tempting, to just never have to face Kash and acknowledge that Ian had let things get so out of his own control. “Well. I guess I am a little busy,” Ian heard himself say. “I’ll call if my schedule opens up.” 

“Of course. Just make sure you call early in the week. I’m not a miracle worker,” she said, familiarly wry.

Ian thanked her and hung up, still stunned. He sat on the couch in the living room, trying to retrace how he’d gotten here. Kash had seemed his normal sweet, besotted self, if slightly hurt that Ian wanted to take a break. But maybe that had just been on the surface. Maybe he’d been thinking of the easiest way to hurt Ian, to cast him out of the store, as soon as he asked Ian to leave for the day.

It was the weekend and the Gallagher house was free of daycare for once. He heard Debbie making lunch in the kitchen, and Lip and Fiona arguing good-naturedly about something upstairs.

He felt like he'd made a serious misstep, somewhere, but he was having trouble pinpointing it. So he sat and thought, miserably trying and failing to figure it out. 

He was staring at the TV blankly when the couch dipped. He turned to see Debbie with Liam on her hip sitting beside him, holding a plate with a sandwich in her hand.

“You want some lunch before you go to work?” she asked, bouncing Liam on her hip and making him coo.

“Um,” Ian said. He stared at the sandwich. “I guess I…I don’t think I have a job, anymore.”

“Really?” Debbie set the plate on the coffee table, shifting Liam to her lap. “I thought you were working at the corner store this summer.”

“I was,” he said, shrugging helplessly. “Not anymore.”

“Well, school starts soon. Three weeks or so, right?” When Ian just nodded listlessly, Debbie looked at him, calculating. “Do you want to work?”

“Of course I want to work,” Ian retorted, slightly stung. “I want to do my part for the squirrel fund. I’m not Frank.”

Liam reached out and started patting Ian on the shoulder. “Eeen. Eeen. Eeen.” 

“Hey, buddy,” Ian said disconsolately, grabbing Liam’s foot and rubbing the sole through his sock. The summer was practically over and he really would have less time once school started, but he’d always had a side job. He was one of the only Gallaghers who got most of his money from working, rather than pulling cons. And he was no good at scheming. The Kash N Grab had been an easy way to make money without quietly sweating off half his weight from the anxiety and guilt of snookering some poor asshole out his paycheck. Lip and Carl and even Debbie and Fiona to an extent had no such qualms, but Ian was weak. He needed a regular job, even if it paid shit and meant he had to sleep with his boss to keep it, apparently.

“If you want, I could maybe call in a favor,” Debbie said. 

Ian raised his eyebrows. “What are you, part of the mob now?” 

“No, but I know a kid who works at the library who owes me a favor. A few favors, actually. He might be able to swing you a job a couple of afternoons a weak. I think it’s minimum, though.”

The Kash N Grab was barely minimum, too. Ian hadn’t really worried about it when he was also fucking Kash. It didn’t make sense to get all high and mighty now.

"The library, huh?"

Debbie shrugged. "It's more glamorous than the daycare, I bet."

Bemused, and without any other option, Ian let Debbie pass off Liam to Fiona and followed her to the library on Halsted, walking into the small, squat brick building behind her like a shadow.

"There's my guy," Debbie said once they were inside. Before Ian could make a suitably confused face at the fact that Debbie was like a library mafia don, she was waving at a kid of with floppy hair and glasses in the Returns section. "Hey Andy!"

“Hey Debbie.” The kid, Andy, leaned a hip casually against the counter. Too casually for Ian’s tastes. Ian stood tall, looking down at the kid in case he tried anything dumb. “What can I do for you?” 

"I'm calling in that favor," Debbie said, and when Andy looked suddenly optimistic, she just shook her head. "No, I need you to get my brother a job."

"I don't know—Debbie, that's kind of a big favor," Andy said, looking panicked.

"You said whatever I needed."

Debbie looked at him, expectant, and Andy caved pretty quickly, Ian looking on in stunned confusion.

"Who are you?" Ian muttered as Andy went to go talk to one of the cranky-looking librarians. "And why does this kid owe you a Big Favor?"

Debbie waved a hand dismissively. "He helped me look up stuff on Jimmy once, and then I helped him redo some of the shelving system here, and it apparently saved the library a bunch of man hours ands stuff. So he owes me. Also, he has a crush on me, but that's just details."

Ian stared at her. "I ask again: who are you?"

But before Debbie could give him a satisfactory answer, Andy was coming back with the librarian, and the librarian was giving Ian stern I-don't-trust-you eyes, and the next thing Ian knew, he was being led around the library stacks by the librarian, Janice. Who did not, in fact, trust Ian, or any underage child, and told him so three separate time as she gave him a tour of the library and severely listed the duties of an Associate Librarian Technician Assistant (which Andy told him later just meant Library Slave).

It only took Ian a week to realize he really, really liked his new job. It was boring, and it was oppressively quiet, but he was strangely calm for the entirety of his shift. He hadn't realized that working at the Kash N Grab had even been making him tense, until he didn't have to go there and interact with Kash and his needs, or Linda and her mercurial demands. At the library, he just had to shelve books and let Janice boss him around. And not have sex with her. Which was a freeing realization that he didn't quite understand, at first.

When Ian told Mandy about his new job, she made sexy librarian jokes for five minutes or so, then admitted she and Mickey were probably going to see him around anyway. "Who knew we'd spend so much time at the goddamn library, right?" she said over the phone.

"Talk about a plot twist," Ian agreed.

Even though he was expecting them, he was still a little taken aback when he looked up from reshelving the Romance Novels/Women Fiction section and saw Mandy smiling broadly as she walked through the front arches of the entrance, Mickey trailing behind her.

"Hey, loser," she said, voice far too strident for the silence of of the library. Janice the Librarian gave her a look that Mandy ignored. "You should get some sexy glasses, complete the whole look."

"I'll put it on my list," Ian said. He smiled at Mickey. "Hey, Mick. How's it going?"

Mickey looked down at his feet and smiled. He looked almost giddy. He was holding a book at his waist, and Mandy was giving him an amused glance.

"Mickey really likes the library," she explained.

"I do not," Mickey muttered contrarily.

"I do too," Ian admitted with a shrug, and smiled even wider when Mickey looked up at him in surprise. 

"Nerd Trio, activate," Mandy said, punching them both in the shoulders. "Shit. I think I forgot a book I need to return." She gave Ian a speculative look. "Now that you work here, does that mean I don't have to worry about late fines ever again?"

Ian caught the suspicious look Janice was throwing his way, and shook his head. "Negative."

"Balls," Many muttered. She looked at Mickey. "Will you be okay if I run back home?" Mickey made a sour face, and Mandy rolled her eyes. "Okay, relax, I was just asking." She waved at Ian over her shoulder as she trotted back out the way she'd come. "I'll be right back!"

"Quiet, please," Janice said sharply at Mandy's retreating back. She raised a disapproving eyebrow at Ian, who made a face.

He went back to his reshelving, conscious of the way Mickey followed after him curiously. As he got back to work on dewey decimal 34.222 JAN through 34.223 ABE, Mickey sat on the ground at the end of the aisle, watching him. He seemed disinclined to talk, and Ian was still too nervous to fuck up this cushy job he'd stumbled ass-backwards into that he was glad they could stay silent.

After a while, he glanced back and saw Mickey reading his book intently, silently mouthing the words.

As Ian drew closer, completely protected from the front desk's view this far back in the stacks, he couldn't help but pause and watch Mickey read. It was almost painfully adorable, the way his skinny shoulders hunched over the book like he wanted to crawl inside of it.

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” Ian said, honestly surprised.

Mickey shifted uncomfortably, peering up at Ian. “I didn’t really know either. Or I didn't remember, I guess.” He flipped through the pages of the pages of the book in his lap, the gesture nervous. “My reading’s for shit now, anyway. I have to sound out half the words on the page.” 

Eyeing the remaining five books or so in his trolley, Ian crouched beside Mickey on the floor. Mickey seemed tense to have Ian inspecting his reading material, but Ian just tilted his head so he could see the cover of the book. Something with old fashioned curlicues on the cover, and elaborate print on the title: The Secret Garden. There was an illustration of a girl and a boy and a fox beside them in a garden. He’d never read it, or even heard of it.

“When I was—” Mickey grimaced, his words stuttering in that way Ian knew meant he was trying to find some way of referring to his time in the box without actually coming out and saying it, and seemed to settle on, “ _back then_. I used—to pass the time, I used to tell stories to myself, like I was watching a movie in my head. Sometimes I would run out of stories though, I couldn’t think of anything else, like what came next? And it was really fucking annoying.”

“Why don’t you just watch movies then, or like, TV?” Ian asked. The thought of reading for pleasure sounded dreary as all fucking hell to Ian, and he didn’t understand why anyone would subject themselves to it willingly.

Mickey chewed on his lip. “It hurts my eyes, sometimes,” he offered. He wouldn’t look at Ian. “And they get really…loud.” 

Feeling like an idiot, Ian wondered how used to silence Mickey must've gotten in the years he was kept in Indiana, nothing but himself and his thoughts to fill the silence of the shed he'd been kept. Ian had to fight to suppress a shudder. He hated thinking of what Mickey must've gone through, but he felt cowardly for avoiding it, so he made himself think of it for ten seconds and than banished it entirely from his mind.

“Books are easier,” Mickey was saying, still staring at the one on his knees. “I don’t have to think of the stories on my own anymore.”

Ian was physically incapable of holding himself back from leaning forward and smacking a kiss on the crown of Mickey's head. Mickey twitched, pulling back to look up at Ian with wide eyes. Ian darted forward again, pressing another kiss to Mickey's mouth. He smiled at Mickey, helplessly.

"I'm glad," he said.

Mickey was staring at him, a rare moment of eye-to-eye contact stretching out longer than ever before. Feeling self-conscious, Ian straightened to his feet and Mickey mirrored him, standing close, dropping his book to the ground almost carelessly. Ian rubbed the back of his neck, but Mickey grabbed his wrist, using his grip to pull Ian close. 

"What are you doing," Ian whispered, blinking, the sharp, almost predatory gleam in Mickey's eyes making his skin feel hot.

Mickey didn't answer. Instead he stepped closer, pressing Ian further back in the stacks, moving them deeper into the library until it felt like they were in a separate, private bubble from everyone else, from the front desk and Janice and the handful of other patrons around them.

“We can’t have sex here,” Ian hissed, sounding like a prissy old lady but unable to help the scandalized tone of his voice. His heart was pounding so hard it was almost painful. 

“We can’t?” Mickey stared at him blankly, face smooth enough that Ian couldn’t tell if he was fucking with him or not. He seemed darkly amused by Ian's discomfiture, the way Ian's hand was fluttering a little in the wrist Mickey still held as he steered him against the books.

“No, we _can’t_ ,” Ian confirmed, wide-eyed and watching as Mickey ignored him and stepped closer, crowding him against the stacks until his back hit the sharp edge of a shelf.

“You live your life by so many _rules_ ,” Mickey muttered, arching an eyebrow. Ian brayed out a laugh in surprise, throwing his head back so it hit some books. He clapped a free hand over his mouth, remembering where the fuck they were, oh yeah, a _library_ , where Ian _worked_ now, he shouldn’t be causing a ruckus of any kind.

A ruckus, he thought wildly to himself, he sounded like Janice.

“I like when you’re nervous,” Mickey said. He leaned forward, pressing his face into Ian’s neck. He inhaled deeply, then latched on to skin at the base of his neck, biting sharply.

Ian closed his eyes helplessly, arching his neck to give Mickey more room. He heard a high-pitched whine escape his mouth, trying to fight it but a little unable to do anything but hang there limply and let Mickey give him the messiest hickey of his entire life.

There was a harsh cough from the end of the aisle. Ian jerked his head around and Janice staring archly at him and Mickey, seemingly self-conjuring herself out of thin air at the very hint of any adolescent shenanigans.

Ian stepped back immediately, coughing, completely mortified. “Um,” he mumbled. He could feel Mickey watching him, not nearly as caught off guard. He had two high circles on color on his cheek and he seemed to be fighting the urge to smirk, the asshole.

“Canoodle on your own time,” Janice said sharply when she seemed to feel satisfied with the amount of time she'd let Ian squirm. “Finish shelving those books.” She stood watching until Ian had moved to the book cart, safely removed from Mickey and the lure of canoodling in the shelves.

"Jesus, Mickey, that was too close," Ian hissed, storming out of the stacks. He felt a little dramatic, but the way Mickey was staring after him, hotly, like he wanted to drag Ian back into the shelves and ravish him like one of the ladies on the cover of the romance novels Ian was shelving made him feel crazy.

Then Ian careened to a stop, Mickey stepping onto the heels of his shoes at the sudden stop. Mandy was standing at the edge of the shelf. He wondered in a panic how much she had heard, how much she had seen. As she stared at Ian in steadily growing dismay, it became clear that the answer was: enough.

"I returned my books," she said tonelessly. "Ian, did you guys just—" She stopped to swallow, then turned to Mickey. "Did you find any other books you wanted to check out?" When Mickey shook his head, she smiled shakily at him. "Why don't you go ahead without me? I need to talk to Ian for a minute."

Ian glanced at Mickey, who wasn't smirking anymore. He was watching Mandy with the same level of watchful uncertainty that Ian felt. Ian wanted to grab him, make him stay, but Mandy's face was hard and neither boy seemed to have the wherewithal to cross her in that moment.

"See you later," Ian told Mickey as he left. Mickey looked at him for a moment, then nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something to Mandy, but at the last minute he clutched his book to his chest again and left.

Leaving Ian to his fate, he thought bleakly to himself as Mandy jerked her head toward the back exit. "I think it's time to take your break," she bit out under her breath and swept away without waiting to confirm Ian was following her.

He did, though. It wasn't like he had much of a choice. She was his best friend, and she was _pissed_. And Ian had a sinking feeling that he knew why. He needed to deal with his. 

Outside, Mandy turned to face him as soon as the door slammed shut behind Ian. He stood next to her, staring out at the half-empty parking lot, waiting for Mandy to start. When she didn't say anything right away, he looked at her, and wished he hadn't.

Mandy was looking at him in dawning horror. “Have you guys—you mean, you and Mickey are, what. Fucking?” 

Ian shifted uncomfortably. “Kind of. I mean, yeah. We are.” 

“Holy shit.” Mandy looked shell-shocked.

Ian went to touch her on the elbow, but Mandy held a hand. “No, I think you should stay over there.”

“Mandy, if this is because of the gay thing,” Ian started, unaccountably hurt that Mandy would have a problem with it, but Mandy cut him off.

“Are you serious?” she barked out. “Of course it’s not— _gay thing_ , what are you even saying? I’m just…I can’t believe you would…Ian. Ian, he was taken for three years. They think he wasn’t allowed outside for almost all of that time. He’s, he’s _not well_ , how could you—what, what were you _thinking_ , I—”

“I didn’t do anything—Mandy. _Mandy_. Mickey wants to, I’m not making him.”

“Oh my god,” she said softly. “Do you hear yourself?” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ian muttered. “If you’re mad I didn’t tell you, I mean, you’re right, I should’ve told you. I’m sorry for keeping this from you." He stared at her desperately, trying to make her understand.

"So you think, what. You think you're dating him? You're not with Kash anymore, so you thought, hey. Why not Mickey. Why not fuck around with him. Easy prey, right?" Mandy was practically spitting, her eyes wide, her face painfully white.

"It's not like that, jesus," Ian objected. "I really like him, Mandy."

Mandy was staring at him like she was seeing him for the first time. She seemed to be puffing up to twice her size, ready to slash out and blind Ian in a single move like a furious cat, defending her kittens or her nest or whatever it was cats protected, Ian had no idea, because his best friend was standing right in front of him and looking like she _hated_ him, and he felt monstrous, suddenly, and he didn't know why.

“I feel like—I don’t even know who you are right now, Ian.” She was shaking her head, and Ian felt a complementary, crushing wave of guilt wash over him.

Before he could think of anything to say, she was backing away. "Don't call me." She shook her head like she couldn't help herself. "I'd say stay the fuck away from Mickey too, but—that would probably just make you want him more, huh?"

Ian couldn't even formulate more than a splutter. He watched Mandy hurry away, almost running in the direction of their neighborhood. 

For a moment, he felt a mighty flush of righteous indignation run through him all at once. How dare Mandy. How dare she imply—like Ian was some kind of predator, like he was taking advantage of Mickey because he was weak, Ian would never—he couldn't even form the thought. It was too ugly. It made him feel too ugly. 

He leaned against the outside of the library, the rough brick digging into his skin.

He thought of how fiercely protective Mandy was of her brother, and he thought of how Ian and Mickey’s relationship must look to her. It came to him suddenly, and it made him feel panicked.

It was so much better when it was just Mickey and him, alone in the moment together, to get lost in how simple and easy it was to be with him. With Mandy before him now, making him reexamine all their time together, he started to feel sick, the whole complicated mess becoming thicker and soupier and harder to manage.

Not seeing much else of an option, Ian trudged back inside to finish the last of his shift, Mandy's words like beestings as they ricocheted in his head. 

 

***

 

Mickey was antsy for Mandy to get home. He sat near the couch in the living room, knees bouncing, staring at the front door like a house pet, waiting for Mandy's arrival. He just wanted to get it over with, the inevitable yelling, her anger at Mickey trying to take Ian away from her, that was probably what it was, he was pretty sure, the devastated look in her eye when she'd seen Mickey and Ian walk out of the book stacks together was his sister realizing Mickey had betrayed her. He hadn't meant to, but that didn't really matter did it, he told himself miserably. He'd tried to steal his sister's best friend, and she'd caught them, and he was a terrible brother.

"What's with you," Iggy said, watching Mickey twitch from his spot on the couch.

Mickey ignored him, and eventually Iggy shrugged and went back to watching Sports Center with Colin, who was too caught up in the commentary to spare Mickey a glance.

But when Mandy came into the house, she wasn't alone. Terry was with her, and a strange lady trailed behind him, and Mandy looked completely bewildered, like she had run into them unexpectedly outside and had joined their strange parade on accident.

She looked quickly at Mickey, then away, her face grim. Mickey was so distracted he barely noticed Terry and the strange lady coming to stand over his spot against the wall.

"Mickey," his dad said gruffly. He looked supremely annoyed. "This woman needs to talk to you. She's from the hospital."

The lady gave Terry an exasperated look. "Not quite," she said. "I'm a social worker. I'm with DCFS." She smiled warmly down at Mickey. "My name's Victoria. Vicky, really. You can call me Vicky."

She looked very young to Mickey's eyes, and he was irritably annoyed that she was distracted him when he wanted to be talking to Mandy, who was standing in the hallway, watching Vicky the Social Worker and Terry loom over Mickey.

"Okay," Mickey said, not really seeing the relevance of all this. He looked past Vicky at Mandy, but Vicky crouched down beside him. 

"You mind if I sit?" she asked. 

Mickey looked up at his dad in puzzlement. His dad sighed loudly.

"It's out of my hands, Mick," he said, sounding almost apologetic. "I told them we didn't need some damn social work woman butting her nose into our business, but they said they'd send out investigators otherwise."

This was all over Mickey's head, and he just stared at his dad's shoulder.

"Mickey," Vicky said softly. "I just wanted to talk with you for a minute or two. Is that okay?"

Mickey looked at his dad, who huffed out a few curse words and shrugged, then threw himself on the couch. "Get the fuck out of here," he snarled at Colin and Iggy, who immediately hopped up and left for the kitchen. He shot Mandy a look too, and she huffed, disappearing from the hallway into her bedroom as well.

Terry, however, seemed to be pointedly keeping himself in the room, keeping tabs on whatever was about to transpire. Vicky didn't seem to bothered by him, which Mickey found oddly impressive. His dad usually bothered most people. Vicky seemed more focused on Mickey, however.

"It's funny," she said. "Our names rhyme. Almost like we were meant to meet, you know?"

Mickey tried to convey deep annoyance with just a small move of his eyebrows. Vicky smiled. "I know a social worker is the last person you and your family want to see right now," she said conversationally. "It must feel like a huge invasion of privacy. I bet you guys just want to move on, forget anything ever happened, right?"

Vicky closed her mouth, looked expectantly at Mickey, and when she seemed intent to wait him out despite his annoyed eyebrow movement, Mickey let his head thunk against the wall.

"I don't remember much," he grumbled, feeling like he was repeating lines from the script of a horribly play he was forced to enact over and over for his dad, his brothers and Mandy, even Ian sometimes.

"That's okay," Vicky said, nodding easily. Mickey eyed her warily, not liking the way she just accepted it, like it wasn't her whole job to get Mickey to remember, to help the police figure out who had taken him, who had kept him, who had buried him in the box.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to remember much,” Mickey said stubbornly. He could feel his whole body tensing up. He saw the way Terry went still, pretending to watch TV but clearly listening in. 

“Okay,” the social worker lady said, shrugging, still good-natured. Mickey eyed her suspiciously, not trusting the mellow friendliness of her voice.

“Everybody wants me to remember,” he added, testing her.

She shrugged again, bouncing a little as she crouched back on her heels, looking like a little kid. “I think you’re probably right,” she said thoughtfully. “Why do you think they want that?” 

Mickey glared at her shoulder. He pointedly did not answer. 

She sighed, a corner of her mouth turning up ruefully. “I’m not your therapist, Mickey. I don’t have the licensing for that. I’m not trying to trick you or anything, I'm just curious to see how you're doing. I know from your file your last therapy session didn't go so hot. My boss thought maybe a more laid back approach might be best for you right now.”

Her words were mostly gibberish to Mickey. He stared at her, willing her to leave.

If nothing else, she seemed to sense that, and respect it. She smiled at Mickey one last time, though. "I just wanted us to meet first, before I start suggesting any treatment plans. So you know who I am, going forward. Low stakes." She straightened up. "It was nice to meet you." She nodded at Terry. "And you, Mr. Milkovich. Thanks for letting me ambush you out there, I was worried I might not see you today. My office has been having a lot of trouble getting in contact with you." It sounded like a veiled criticism, even if Mickey still didn't understand half of what she was saying. Before Terry could retort, and he looked like he wanted nothing more, Vicky waved at Mickey. "See you next week." And left.

"Goddamn busybody government assholes," Terry groused. Not wanting to be distracted again, Mickey darted past him to Mandy's room. 

He hesitated at the door, then pushed it open. Mandy was sitting on her bed, staring at her hands, face blank. She looked up when the door opened.

"Hey, Mickey," she said tiredly.

Mickey nodded and edged closer to the bed. He dreaded the yelling, knowing he deserved it but wishing he could skip ahead to the part where he was alone in his room, curled up near the wall again. 

"I'm sorry," he said, haltingly, because it felt like what he should be saying.

"Mickey," Mandy said, eyebrows furrowing. "Why are you sorry? I'm not mad—" She turned away sharply. "Well. Not at you."

He stopped at the foot her bed, watching her watchfully. "Why aren't you mad at me?"

Mandy blew a sharp breath out of her mouth. "Because it's not your fault, Mickey, none of this is."

Mickey waited, feeling just as confused as when the social worker lady spewed out nonsense in the living room. Mandy reached out her hand, uncurling her fingers so they stretch toward Mickey on the bedspread. He stared at them, feeling completely off kilter.

"Has Ian—he hasn't," she stuttered. "He isn't making you do anything, right?"

Mickey felt his head tip to the side, urging Mandy to go on. 

"I mean, just because he wants to—you don't have to let him—you can talk to me, okay? You're my brother. You can talk to me about anything, and I'll listen." She was staring pleadingly at him now, like she was trying to say something without actually _saying_ it, but Mickey didn't know what the hell she was talking about, no matter how pained she looked.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry for...I didn't mean to try and take Ian away from you," he said, uncertain about his previous assumption for why Mandy was so upset.

"What?" Mandy looked thrown. "What are you talking about? Mick, I'm trying to tell you that you don't have to have sex with Ian. You don't have to let him do that. I know you're still adjusting, and you probably feel like you can't really say no, maybe."

"Fuck," Mickey said on a breath, realization beginning to dawn.

"I'm so sorry if you felt like, I don't know, you couldn't tell me about—"

"You think Ian's—you think he's, raping me?" The word felt almost comically stilted and formal in his mouth. He was sure he'd misunderstood her, because Mandy couldn't honestly think that, but she flinched at the word and he knew that's what it was.

"I think maybe you don't really...know what you want," Mandy said carefully. 

"What the fuck do you know about what I want?" Mickey bit out. Mandy blinked, obviously taken aback at the vehemence in Mickey's voice. He stared at hit, guts roiling.

"I'm just saying—"

"I just like being with him," Mickey said hotly. "He doesn't treat me like I'm broken."

"I don't treat you like you're broken," Mandy shot back, but Mickey wasn't hearing it.

"I'm not fucking broken."

"I know you're not—"

"Maybe I want to be around him more than you."

Mandy sat back on the bed, spine straight, shocked. Mickey just looked at her, feeling something hateful and mean start to bloom in his stomach. For the first time, he looked at Mandy and saw Terry, just another person who thought Mickey was a mess of broken reactions and blank, empty emotions, a wild animal that was constantly at risk of going rogue and needing to be put down.

But for all she looked deeply wounded, Mandy recovered relatively quickly, looking hard at Mickey, her hands shaking but her eyes like steel.

“Fine,” Mandy said sharply. “ _Fine_. You want Ian? You think you guys fucking around is normal, ditching me for your _boyfriend_?” She spat the word like it was the foulest curse. She threw up her hands. “Do it then. He’s all yours. Eat until your sick. See if I care.” Her mouth was pursed tight, her bottom lip trembling. 

Mickey wanted to lash out too, hit her back with words that hurt, but Terry's voice echoed from the living room. "Mickey!"  Mickey jumped, startled. He looked at Mandy, who was glaring at him still. "Mickey, get in here. I want to talk to you."

"Go on," she said. "Dad wants you." She turned her back on him in dismissal, huddling on her bed until Mickey had no choice but to turn and leave her by herself.

In the living room, Terry was finishing a beer. Mickey saw a handful of empty bottles beside his recliner. When he saw Mickey, he beckoned him closer with a move of his chin. "Come sit down with your old man," he said, his voice gravelly and getting a little sloppy with drink.

Mickey inched closer, still feeling shaken from his fight with Mandy. He perched on the edge of the couch.

"That's right," Terry said, smiling. "Watch some baseball highlights with your dad, with your old man." He threw a hand toward the front door. "Social work bitch thinks she knows this family. Like we're trying to pretend nothing happened. I'm not pretending. You're still the same kid. You're still my son, the same Mick." He twisted the top off another beer and held it out to Mickey, who accepted it gingerly.

Satisfied, Terry settled back in his chair. "Good. This is good. We should—we used to do this all the time? You remember?" He didn't seem to be waiting for Mickey to respond, like he was talking to Mickey only nominally, his thoughts focused inward. "Of course you do. We used to watch the Sox all the time. Can't forget that. You know. You remember."

Mickey sat back in the chair, holding the beer in his hand, watching his dad, waiting for something, he wasn't sure. Terry looked almost stubbornly positive, watching the TV, chattering about their past routine of sports watching, of which Mickey remembered nothing.

"You'll be okay," Terry was saying, his voice edging into a mumble. "We'll be okay. Social work bitch. She don't know _shit_." Mickey saw his eyes drifting closed. "You'll be okay, Mick." His jaw went slack. A minute later he was snoring.

Mickey held the beer until it was warm in his hand, never taking a sip. He couldn't stop staring at his dad, thoughts of Ian and Mandy and his dad and long-ago summer afternoons of an alternate version of himself, watching baseball, completely unaware that he was about to have three years of his life stolen away, only to return to a life so twisted and complicated he might never be able to find his footing in it again.

He thought of that boy, of the gift of his easy, uncomplicated life, and felt bitterly, horribly jealous.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys should know: I'm in love with each and every one of you. See you next Monday for Ch. 5!
> 
> Join me on Tumblr, friends: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Use of homophobic slur.

***

**September**

 ***

 

Mandy managed to avoid Ian with the elusiveness of an international secret agent, and by the time school started again in September, he hadn’t been able to catch her on her own once.

Oh, he’d tried. He’d been showing up so often at the Milkovich house even Terry Milkovich barely grunted in acknowledgement when he opened the door to Ian, waving him in with nothing but mild annoyance.

But Mandy held firm. She was out of the house more often then not, and the rare occasions when Ian managed to catch her at home, she refused to come out of her room. 

Ian was stubborn, and he knew Mandy couldn’t avoid him forever, but he was also strangely relieved by the reprieve. As long as he kept trying to talk to her but not have to _actually_ talk to her, he could put off having to scrutinize any of his actions too much. 

Instead, in the days before eleventh grade started, he took advantage of nearly uninterrupted time with Mickey, basking in the freedom of being alone together for whole days at a time when Ian wasn’t scheduled for the library. 

He felt anxious that Terry was going to get wise to the _real_ reason Ian was hanging around the Milkovich house, and that that reason had a penis, but if anything Mickey’s dad seemed to encourage their friendship. 

“Boys need friends who are other boys,” Terry said brusquely as he let Ian into the house. He waved him toward Mickey’s room in the back. “It’s not normal, a teenage boy hanging out with his sister all the time like some faggot.” 

Which made it all the more hilarious to Ian that as soon as he and Mickey left the Milkovich house, they usually rushed off somewhere to make out and giggle and get off together. 

Well, Ian giggled. Mickey watched Ian with a solemn, laser-like intensity that made something in Ian’s stomach swoop and his cock jerk until he was coming so hard it made him dizzy, sometimes. 

Although sometimes they didn’t even fuck around. Sometimes they just sat close together, Mickey reading, Ian distracting him from reading, like they were in their own little pocket of reality.

They were sitting in the shade on the roof of the abandoned building, both sluggish and sleepy with the oppressive late-summer heat, when Ian realized with a pang that soon he wouldn’t be able to see Mickey whenever he wanted.

“I’m going to miss you when school starts,” Ian said carefully.

They didn’t talk about it much, but Ian knew enough to know the social worker had suggested easing Mickey back into public school. Terry had scoffed at the very idea of tutoring or private school (“Where the fuck would I get the money to send one of my boys to some magnet bullshit waste of time, huh?”) so for now Mickey had been officially withdrawn from the fall semester by the social worker.

The social worker had piqued Ian’s interest, but he hadn’t pushed for more information yet. Mickey occasionally mentioned her, face screwing up in suspicious distrust as he muttered, “Vicky was at the house again,” or “Vicky doesn’t trust my dad.” But when Ian made easy, noncommittal attempts to draw out more information, Mickey shut it down, and so Ian was waiting for him to open up on his own.

Now, Mickey put a finger down to mark his page—he was a slow reader, but steady, and Ian noted he was nearly halfway through the The Secret Garden—and looked up at Ian in question. 

“How long does school last?” Mickey frowned. “I know I should know that, but I can’t really…” He waved a hand near his head, his own shorthand for failure to remember. 

Ian kicked a foot out, jostling Mickey knees so the book slid off his lap. He ignored Mickey’s annoyed glare as he settled, considering. “Well, I’ll be in class all day til three, and then I’m at the library Monday, Wednesday, Thursdays.” _And I’m worried about you being all alone by yourself all day_ , Ian added silently to himself.

“That’s a long time,” Mickey said. His voice was carefully neutral, but Ian could see the stunned look in his eye. 

“Yeah,” Ian replied, then added again, still careful, “I’ll miss you.” He reached to toy with the pages of the book a little fretfully, pulling at the cover and spine just to have something to do with his hands. He felt too exposed as he waited for Mickey’s response.

“Get your hand off the book,” Mickey said after a moment, pulling it back firmly. 

Ian looked up, startled, but Mickey was smirking at him. Some of the tension in his shoulders and neck relaxed. He shifted so he was lying on his side, propped on his elbow as he looked up at Mickey, grin turning challenging. 

“You gonna miss me?” he asked, teasing now. He poked Mickey in the side, watched how Mickey bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Mickey was still slightly stiff and self-conscious with easy banter like this but he was getting better.

“No,” he said shortly. He smacked tiredly at Ian’s poking finger, trying his best to look exasperated.

“No?” Ian pressed. “Not even a little?” He grabbed for Mickey’s ankle.

Suddenly Mickey moved with that sharp, darting, snakelike velocity he was secretly capable of. His book clattered to the side as he straddled Ian’s waist, pushing Ian back so his shoulders were squarely on the ground. Mickey grabbed his wrists and pressed them to the concrete above his head, so Mickey was resting half his weight on Ian’s hips and chest, pinning him easily to the ground.

“You’re really annoying,” Mickey told him seriously.

An intent, tender part of Ian’s brain noted that Mickey felt heavier atop him than he had even a month ago, his wiry frame filling out, getting more solid, his muscles stronger, his bones sticking out less severely under his skin.

Ian studied his face, the matching challenge in his eyes as Mickey stared down at him, daring Ian to try and wiggle free. Mickey’s cheeks were pink, his skin stubbornly pale but not nearly as sallow as it was. He was breathing a little hard, eyes bright and glinting.

Ian blinked, caught off guard by how suddenly _healthy_ Mickey looked above him. He felt almost like he was releasing a breath, one he didn’t know he’d been holding. 

“You’re getting fat,” Ian said. His voice sounded choked, and he tried to play it off as just more teasing, rather than his own overwrought reaction to seeing, finally _realizing_ that Mickey was practically coming _alive_ before his very eyes.

“Asshole,” Mickey scoffed, rolling his eyes. He sat back, loosening his grip on Ian’s wrists.

Taking advantage of the slack, Ian brought his arms down and settled them at Mickey’s waist. He kept his touch soft, glancing, watching Mickey carefully to make sure it was okay. Mickey’s eyebrows quirked, slightly suspicious at the sudden gravity of Ian’s touch, but he held still, regally allowing the exploration. 

Ian skimmed his hands up his hips, over his sides, feeling the delicate curves of his ribs, fingertips running across the almost fragile swoop of his collarbone, drawing his thumb up his neck to circle lightly over the bump of his collarbone, tracing how Mickey’s throat moved as swallowed nervously.

Ian didn’t let himself linger, running his hands down the rangy muscle of his shoulders, down his narrow forearms, looping his hands around Mickey’s impossibly skinny wrists, and on impulse, pushed up on one elbow so he could pull Mickey’s right hand to his mouth and press a hard kiss to the softness of his palm. 

“Ian,” Mickey said, voice gruff and slightly embarrassed. 

Mickey sounded almost like his dad in that moment, abashed and uncomfortable with tenderness, and especially with what Ian had to assume was the embarrassing level of adoration in his own eyes. Mickey tugged lightly at his hands but Ian wouldn’t let them go right away, keeping his mouth pressed to the palm.

It had been such a near miss, the two of them, Ian was coming to appreciate. Just another hour, another blink in time and Mickey wouldn’t have been found, wouldn’t have been returned to the neighborhood, wouldn’t have entered Ian’s life, and maybe Ian was being selfish, being so caught up in how Mickey was important to _him_ , but he couldn’t help it, it felt like a minor miracle that it had played out this way so far. 

How did you tell someone that you were so, so happy that they didn’t die before you got the chance to meet them? Ian had no idea, so he settled for pressing another impossibly sappy kiss to Mickey’s palm, staring him in the eye the whole time.

Mickey’s hands fell into his lap and he sat looking at Ian, stunned, but for a different reason this time. Ian smiled shyly, abruptly discomfited by the unexpected outpouring of his own emotion.

He sat up fully, Mickey still draped somewhat awkwardly over his lap, and tried to lighten the sudden heaviness of the moment. “Come on,” he said, huffing a laugh, “we’re a couple of goobers. I’m not being shipped off to war.”

But Mickey, still frowning, finally opened his mouth. “I’ll miss you too.”

And then it was out of his hands, Ian just _had_ to push forward, pressing his chest to Mickey’s boney sternum and kissing him hard, close-mouthed and firm. Mickey, usually so dominant when they were making out or fucking around, let his arms rest tentatively on Ian’s shoulders, letting Ian guide the kiss for a while before moaning and taking inevitable control. 

As Mickey pressed him back down again, firmly capturing Ian’s wrists and pressing them to the ground, pinning Ian down in what was obviously his favorite position, Ian kept his eyes open as long as he could, memorizing the shape of Mickey above him, bossily rearranging Ian until he was satisfied with the drape of his limbs. 

He didn’t want to forget anything about this afternoon, or this boy above him.

 

***

 

Mickey tried not to look too forlorn as he watched Mandy get ready to leave for the first day of school. His sister had been cold to him since their fight over Ian, and while she continued to make him his meals and take him to the library on days Ian wasn't working, it was like spending time with an unfriendly society matron. She was cold, silent, and it wasn’t like Mickey was in the habit of talking her ear off, but the few times he’d tried to ask her a question, she’d answered and fallen back into silence again.

This morning though, she seemed to thaw, almost against her will. She stuffed a notebook in her backpack and turned to Mickey, who was sitting against the wall in the living room, watching her get ready.

“I’ll be back this afternoon,” she said, chewing her lip. It looked like she wanted to say something else, but by then Terry was stomping into the living room, hung over and irritable, beer in his hand.

“Get the hell out of here, you’ll be late,” he said, waving her off sharply.

She lingered for another second, standing over Mickey, but then she sighed. “I’ll see you later,” she told him.

Mickey nodded grimly. He’d spent endless days by himself, three whole years of total isolation when it came down to it, but the thought of nearly everyone he knew being in someplace he couldn't follow was making him feel droopy like a flower.

“Mandy,” Terry said sternly. “Go.”

She looked at their dad and rolled her eyes, but walked out the door anyway. A few seconds later, Iggy came stumbling puffy-eyed and rumpled out of his room, following Mandy out the door without a word to either Terry or Mickey. He didn’t even have a backpack, and Mickey’s memories of school were hazy but he was pretty sure you needed a backpack at least. 

He didn’t remember even liking school that much, or at the very least, he remembered the collective consciousness of being a kid on their block and being required to hate school, or at least give token resistance. Judging by how much he liked to read now, he wouldn’t be surprised if the him from Before secretly loved school, but it was too hazy to be sure now.

Vicky had tentatively offered the idea of half-days on her last visit, but before Mickey could even decide if he wanted that, Terry had interrupted, saying Mickey had earned some time off, _goddamnit_ , and no son of his was going to be forced to go to school just because some goddamn _social worker_ thought he should. 

Vicky grimaced at Mickey behind Terry’s back, and Mickey had just caught himself from smiling back. He still didn’t trust Vicky, and he didn’t want her to think that was changing. 

She seemed unconcerned about it though. She came for home checks once a week or so, and Terry was always tense beforehand, blustering on about DCFS sticking their noses into private business (Mickey heard Iggy and Mandy whispering to each other that they thought Terry was just worried Vickey would stumble upon the guns or the drugs or the million other illegal things squirreled away in the Milkovich house, while Mickey privately thought their dad just liked to complain), but her visits were always casual. Too casual. It put Mickey on edge.

After Terry shot down the school idea and stomped into the kitchen for a beer, Vicky sat beside Mickey on the floor and quietly watched him read for a few minutes. She seemed to like that he read a lot. Mickey supposed it probably signified something comforting to her, like that he was healing or returning to normal or any of the other ridiculous things the counselor at the hospital had said during their failed attempt at therapy. 

“You should read Black Beauty next,” she said out of nowhere.

Mickey went still, then shifted his gaze from his book to her knee. She was wearing black stockings and a boxy brown suit. It felt like a strangely old outfit for such a young woman, but then, Mickey didn’t really know enough to say for certain. She seemed deeply comfortable curling up on the floor beside him though, somehow.

Undeterred by his bland silence, she blithely explained, “A lot of boys your age probably wouldn’t like it, but that’s mostly because boys these days are ridiculous. It’s about horses. Everybody likes horses, don’t they?”

Mickey honest to god had no idea if he liked horses. He stared at her dumbly.

“It’s kind of a sad book, though. Do you mind reading sad books?” She tilted her head as she waited for his response. Mickey gritted his teeth, fighting against the urge to answer. He loved talking about books. Nobody but Mandy ever wanted to talk about them, though, and she did that even less now that they were engaged in a Cold War offensive. Even Ian didn’t really give a shit about books and he worked at the _library_.

Fuck. He caved. “I like sad books,” he said grudgingly. Even when he was still reading picture books, he shied away from any that were too bright or had smiling children on the front. “I think I like them better than happy ones. The happy ones feel like…” He trailed off, noticing how avidly Vicky was listening to him. 

She waited, then tapped the cover of The Secret Garden, prompting him to continue. “What do they feel like?” 

He hesitated, then blurted out, “Like they’re not for someone like me.” 

He waited for Vicky to coo, to comfort him, like Mandy would have when she wasn't being so cold. Even Ian would’ve probably contradict him, tell him he should read whatever he wanted to read.

She didn’t say that, though. She just absorbed his words, humming as she thought. “Maybe they’re not for you. Not yet. Maybe the sad books are better.”

It was kind of a jumble, and Mickey felt himself losing the thread. “Whatever,” he grumbled.

From the kitchen doorway, Terry burped (Mickey had a feeling he was being gross on purpose) and twisted the cap off his beer bottle. He was watching Vicky and Mickey deliberately, listening to what they were saying.

Vicky’s voice dropped slightly, although Mickey doubted Terry couldn’t still hear it.

“You know, you read books in school.”

Mickey snorted. “I know.” He knew about backpacks, and he knew about reading. He wasn’t stupid. He just couldn’t remember what it was like to _be_ there.

“I know you know,” Vicky said, her voice taking on an urgent edge that made Mickey listen more carefully, “but you can read books at home just like you can at school. And even if you can’t go to school right now, if you like reading at home, we can maybe have someone come by and read with you, and do other stuff like that.”

“Like you?” Mickey asked suspiciously. He didn’t approve of Vicky trying to stealthily creep further into his life.

Vicky rolled her eyes indulgently. “No, Mickey. You won’t have to see me anymore than you already do. I’m talking about a tutor.”

“Another goddamn stranger invading my home?” Terry said loudly, walking to the recliner and sitting down. “How much will I be paying for that?”

“There’s certain state funding for juvenile victims of crime, especially for what happened to Mickey,” Vicky said, sounding slightly defiant. She straightened up from her slouch beside Mickey, like she was gearing up for an argument.

“It’s too soon,” Terry said. He looked at Mickey. “You don’t want to go to school, do you? Not yet.”

Mickey looked at Terry, then at Vicky, wishing he could go back to total silence, with no one expecting him to talk. “I don’t know,” he hedged. “I guess. Maybe.” He was pretty confident he’d managed to take no sides at all.

Vicky sighed as she hauled herself up from the floor. “He’s not seventeen yet, Mr. Milkovich. He can’t legally drop out. He’ll need to pick up some kind of education at some point, or I’ll have to report it.” At Terry’s scowl, her expression softened. “We all just want what’s best for Mickey.”

Mickey tensed, expecting his dad to explode at the implication that Vicky and her goddamn social worker ilk were in any way teamed up with the Milkoviches. Terry surprised him though by backing down slightly, and looked down at his beer. “It just feels too soon.” 

“I know. It’s scary.” Vicky sounded worn out, but determined as she picked up her purse from where she’d set it down by the door. “But kids are resilient.” She smiled down at Mickey. “See you next week, okay?”

Now, sitting alone staring at the door where Mandy and Iggy had left for the high school without him, knowing that Ian was gone too, he wondered if he should’ve pushed harder with Vicky and his dad. He wondered if he’d really had a say at all, or if it was just a contest between his dad and the social worker to assert dominance. 

He sighed and pulled his knees to his chest, reaching for his book and opening it on his knees.

He only got through a page before his neck started to burn and he looked up and saw his dad watching him. He looked almost sympathetic, and Mickey glanced back down, unsettled by the concern he thought he saw in Terry’s eyes.

“You know how many kids would kill to get to stay home from school?” his dad asked wryly.

Mickey didn’t know many kids, and he wanted to tell his dad he didn’t have a damn clue what most kids wanted or thought or _did_ , he just knew he felt abandoned, sitting all alone while Mandy and Ian and even Iggy were at school.

He didn’t answer, pretending to read even though he was distracted.

His dad studied him for a moment, and Mickey could feel his eyes on him. He stared unseeingly at his book, waiting for the shoe to drop. “You want to come on a job with me, Mick?” he asked. 

Mickey looked up, studying the arm of the recliner where his dad was sitting.

“A job?” Nonsensically, he thought of Ian’s job at the library, which was slowly taking up an almost fantastical space in Mickey’s head as the perfect job, just hanging out with books all day. 

But of course that wasn’t what Terry was talking about. “Yeah, I’ve got a shipment coming in over near Gary. Iggy’s in school and Joey and Colin are no good at this kind of thing. What do you say?”

Mickey shrugged. He felt a little stir crazy, and the idea of some mysterious job was strangely exciting.

“Anything to stop you moping,” Terry said, shaking his head ruefully.

Two hours later they were in the car. It was strange, being back in the car with Terry now, back on the highway but not driving toward the hospital again. Mickey’s stomach was floating, cautiously excited by the ambient sense of adventure.

At the very least, he wasn’t longing for school and Ian as much anymore. 

It was a long drive, the radio turned to the AM stations so Terry could catch the Sox game. Terry was strangely animated, asking Mickey questions, yelling good-naturedly at the invisible radio announcers and their bullshit opinions. 

“Always so much traffic on the Dan Ryan,” he grumbled when they got out of the city. He gave the entire highway the finger, then grinned at Mickey. 

Since Mickey honestly had no opinions on the Dan Ryan traffic situation, he just nodded, strangely compelled by the chance to keep Terry’s elusive good mood afloat. He was rewarded by a slap on the back from his dad. 

It hadn’t really hit Mickey where they were going until they passed the border and he saw the sign for Indiana. It took him even longer to connect _where_ they were, the fact they were in the very state that had taken on such a mythical bogeyman status in his own head. He glanced uncertainly at his dad. He wondered if this was a test. 

“It’s okay, Mick,” Terry said smoothly, slapping him on the back again. The touch was weirdly gentle. Mickey thought maybe his dad was nervous too. “It’s like a Band-Aid, just rip it off.” 

Mickey felt somewhat indignant at that, that his dad thought coming back to the state of Indiana was some kind of therapy in its own right. He wondered if Terry had done this on purpose.

“Hey,” his dad said, seeming to read his mind, “I’m sorry, it just—fucking slipped my mind, you know? I just wanted to get you out of the house, and I don’t know how… jesus.” He rubbed brutally hard at his eye sockets for a second as they took an exit, veering into downtown Gary. “It probably doesn’t make a difference, but where they—you were, the place you were—that was a few hours south. Nowhere near here.”

“Okay,” Mickey said, at somewhat of a loss for what else he _could_ say. He was in Indiana. His dad had brought him here, and he was here now, and he couldn’t leave until Terry decided it was time to drive home. He thought maybe he should be angry, but Terry kept glancing at him, worried, and Mickey couldn’t focus on the anger, not when Terry looked so apologetic. 

He turned to focus on the rundown buildings, which thankfully looked nothing like the hazy memory of wide open fields and farmland he had from his time when he was away. 

They pulled up to a warehouse in a neighborhood peppered with foreclosure signs. Mickey mouthed the word "foreclosure" to himself, liking the taste of the letters on his tongue. 

Terry put the car in park and turned to Mickey in his seat. “I’m thinking look out duty for you today, what do you think?” Terry suggested. “You know, ease back into it.” 

If Mickey was supposed to be following the subtext here, he thought his dad was going to be pretty disappointed. He nodded anyway.

“You remember how this goes?” Terry prompted. 

Mickey couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “No,” he said, a little stubbornly, because of course he didn’t.

It didn’t seem to ruffle Terry. “All you gotta do is sit out here and watch for cops. You see any coming, you honk the horn twice. Just twice.” He looked toward the warehouse, which seemed empty to Mickey’s eye, but what did he know. “I’ll just go meet them inside, check what they got for me, and meet you back out here. Easy enough.” 

He grabbed Mickey’s shoulder, shaking it in his familiar rough way. “Hey, don’t look so nervous. You’ve done this a million times before.”

Mickey didn’t see how that mattered, because it might as well have been a stranger, but he nodded yet again anyway. “Okay,” he said. 

Terry gave him a cocky smile and turned to head into the warehouse. Mickey watched him until he disappeared inside, then stared out the windshield. No cops. No anybody, really, aside from the occasional person crossing the street up at the intersection a few blocks up. 

Ten minutes stretched to twenty, stretched to forty-five. He watched the clock on the dash, wishing he’d thought to bring his book with. If this was the life of crime he’d known back Before, he must’ve had a high threshold for boredom.

His thoughts drifted to Ian. He wondered what he was doing in school, if he was too busy hanging out with normal kids at school to even wonder about Mickey in return. He even thought about Mandy, wondered if she and Ian had any classes together, or if they spoke at all. 

It was hot in the car, and eventually he felt his eyelids droop. He was about to fall asleep when he blinked and saw movement at the warehouse door.

Terry came out of the warehouse an hour later holding a duffle bag. When he slid into the driver’s seat, his eyes looked glassy.

“See, everything went smooth as butter,” he said jovially. “No cops, got some good shit, struck a good deal.” He smiled at Mickey as he fumbled with the keys. “Think you’re a good luck charm. Man. Just like old times, huh?” 

Mickey wasn’t much of an expert anymore, but he though Terry must be fucked up on something, his movements slow and slightly sloppy.

Mickey tried to smile, but it felt weak. Terry didn’t seem to notice. “I’m glad you came with, Mick.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said.

They drove slowly back to Chicago, Terry staying carefully in the right lane, the car swaying incrementally back and forth. He kept glancing at Mickey, like he was trying to share some kind of secret joke with Mickey.

Mickey looked out the window, wishing he could tell his dad that he was trying to share it with the wrong son, a body double of the Mickey from Before. He didn’t know the words though, so he stayed silent the whole right home.

 

***

 

When Ian got out of his first day of school, Mickey was standing near the crosswalk on the corner waiting for him and looking fidgety.

“Hey,” Ian said softly in surprise. He wondered vaguely how Mickey even knew where to find him, if he’d traveled to the high school  during one of his late night sojourns before he started to hang out with Ian. 

Lip was beside him, eyes down as he dug through his backpack. He looked up at Ian’s words.

“Is that fucking Mickey Milkovich?” Lip jabbed Ian in the side. “Ian. Is that Mickey? Is he going to school now? Ian.” 

Ian smacked his elbow away, rubbing his ribs. “Stop fucking hitting me,” he sniped. “I see him. Yeah, that’s Mickey. I’ll see you at home.”

“We’re all going to the same neighborhood, why don’t we just—and you’re not even listening, okay, _bye, Ian_ ,” Lip grumped behind him, but Ian was already focused on Mickey, immediately worried. 

“Hey, Mick,” Ian said when he was close enough to be heard.

Mickey jumped. “Hey,” he said, head jerking up when he saw Ian. His eyes kept darting around the sea of teenagers teeming around him as they poured off of school property, like Mickey was a stone in a river.

Ian glanced around too, but nobody really seemed to be paying Mickey much attention. They were far enough away from the neighborhood that Mickey’s notoriety wasn’t quite as immediate, here.

“You okay?” 

“I want to check out a book at the library,” he said firmly.

“Okay,” Ian said, slowly. He took Mickey by the elbow and led him down the block, away from the bus stop and thus the main flow of high school traffic. 

They stepped into an alleyway. “What’s going on, everything okay?” he asked again. Hidden in the alley, Ian stepped closer and took Mickey’s shoulders in his hand.

Mickey seemed to droop at the contact, leaning into Ian’s hold. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Liar,” Ian said. He squeezed his shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” Mickey said, mulishly. “I want to check out that book.”

“Well, I’m not the library, dude. I don’t carry all the books with me.”

“I know that,” Mickey said. He glared at Ian, and the expression was so familiar that it calmed Ian’s worry somewhat. Ian kicked against Mickey’s shoes, then let go of one of his shoulders to pull out his phone and check the time.

“Well, my shift doesn’t start for anther hour. I was going to get a snack at home, you want to come with?” He smiled, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Then we can find that very special book of yours?”

“Fuck you,” Mickey said without energy. He slumped against Ian’s side for another second, then straightened, looking at Ian resolutely. “Well? Let’s get going.”

Ian laughed, shooing him out of the alleyway. “You’re so bossy, jeez.”

Mickey didn’t have a CTA card so they walked the long way. It meant Ian would have less time at home before work, but it was worth it if only to calm the hunted expression on Mickey’s face from being surrounded by so many people at the high school. The bus would’ve probably just stressed him out more.

Before Ian could reach for the handle on his front door, his older sister was opening it for him, already talking a mile a harried minute.

“Hey Ian, I was going to make you something to eat before work, but I got called in so I have to—” Fiona stopped, taking in Mickey at Ian’s side.

Ian felt rather than saw Mickey stiffen, no doubt staring stonily down at the ground.

“Hey,” Fiona said, smiling crookedly. Her eyes darted between Ian and Mickey, working to put the pieces together.

“This is Mickey,” Ian said, somewhat uselessly, because of course Fiona knew who Mickey was. The whole neighborhood knew who he was, but Ian was nervous and couldn’t help filling the silence. 

“Yeah, I know.” Fiona smiled wider, eyes crinkling. “You hungry?” she asked Mickey. 

“Yes,” Ian answered for him. Mickey was always hungry. Mandy had started joking it was like he had a tapeworm, and Ian had to take a breath, thinking of Mandy making him feel breathlessly guilty. He should text her and tell her where Mickey was so she wouldn’t freak out. She still wasn’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he wanted her to worry. 

He straightened his shoulders and shoved Mickey playfully with his whole body into the house. 

“Stop pushing me,” Mickey grumbled. Ian let out a peal of laughter and Fiona watched them both, her expression thoughtful.

She gestured to the kitchen. “Well, I can offer you grilled cheese and mac and cheese, and I think cheese toast, if you’re in the mood.” She shrugged. “Basically a lot of cheese.” 

Ian scooped up Liam from his playpen as they passed, the toddler looking at Mickey with wide, fascinated eyes as they went into the kitchen. Mickey looked at him, both boy and toddler exchanging a deep, meaningful look.

Fiona was staring at Mickey's thin back, frowning fiercely. After a long moment, she burst out like she couldn’t hold it in anymore, “My god, if you were any skinnier you’d disappear!” 

“Fiona,” Ian said, shaking his head at her.

“It’s true,” she said pragmatically, and then it was out of Ian’s hands.

He sat down with Liam in his lap, and they watched with amusement as Fiona herded Mickey into the kitchen, then herded him into a kitchen chair, then gently bullied him into eating two entire grilled cheese sandwiches 

(“I don’t need another one,” Mickey protested, even as he looked hungrily at the half-eaten sandwich on Ian’s plate. “You need at least two more, but I’ll negotiate down to one,” Fiona retorted, eyeing Mickey’s skinny frame critically).

Ian wasn’t surprised that Mickey’s waiflike face and his big, hungry eyes were like a siren’s call to Fiona’s already substantial mothering instincts. What he _was_ surprised by was how Mickey leaned into it, letting Fiona boss him around. Fiona was a more hands-on touch than Mandy, Ian supposed. Whereas Mandy seemed content to let Mickey figure things out on his own, Fiona had never parented that way, and didn’t seem inclined to handle Mickey like that either. Mickey seemed to bask in it, in the direction, the freedom from choice. The novelty of that wore off after a while though, Ian thought with an internal eye roll.

Ian found himself looking at Fiona more than Mickey after awhile, at the deep furrows of concern around her eyes as she watched Mickey wolf down his food. She looked like she was physically pained, watching Mickey sit there, her eyes haunted.

“Have some milk,” she said, pouring the last of the gallon into a tall glass and pushing toward Mickey.

“I’m not thirsty,” Mickey tried.

“Have some milk,” Fiona repeated, with a note of finality.

Mickey sighed and drank the milk, and when Fiona smiled victoriously, he gave her a small smile.

Ian sometimes carelessly considered himself an orphan. It was stupid, thinking that way, he decided. Monica and Frank were useless as two left-footed shoes, but no one cared more about misfit children like Fiona did.

Fiona looked at her watch and squawked. “Fuck!” She looked at Ian. “You’ve got work, and I’ve gotta drop the little man off before I go to my shift. Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Liam repeated solemnly.

“Hey, watch it, little man,” Fiona said, laughing. She picked Liam up and kissed his belly, making the baby giggle. She looked at Mickey one last time. “You should come over with Mandy some night for dinner. She hasn’t been around much.” She gave Ian an arch look at that and he glanced down guiltily. “Well, okay. Nice to meet you, Mickey. Have a good day at work, Ian.” And she whirled out of the house like a hurricane, leaving Mickey blinking in his wake. 

“So,” Ian said, smirking at Mickey’s blindsided stare, “that’s Fiona.”

The rest of the afternoon played out uneventfully, Ian texting Mandy as he and Mickey walked to the library (to no response), and Ian found Mickey the horse book he had needed with such inexplicable intensity. 

When he walked Mickey home that night, Mandy didn’t come out of her room, and Ian left feeling discouraged, even though Mickey smiled at him on his way out.

He was getting desperate. She wouldn’t talk to him in the neighborhood, she was ignoring him at school. He felt like things were spiraling and he was grappling at a sandy cliff trying to fix it.

Later that week, he was no closer to fixing things with Mandy, and he was so distracted that as he left the house with Lip and Debbie and Carl, he realized he didn’t have his bus pass.

“Balls, I forgot my CTA card,” Ian said, slapping his hand to his forehead. He shooed his hand at his siblings. “You guys go, you’ll miss the bus.”

“So will you,” Lip replied.

“Yeah, but you guys shouldn’t miss it just for me. And if I hurry, maybe I’ll still make it. Go!” He pushed gently at Debbie and Carl, then nodded at Lip. “Just take them, I’ll be fine.

Reluctantly, Lip put a hand on Carl and Debbie’s shoulders and towed them away. “Move your ass, man,” he called to Ian as they hustled down the street. 

Inside, Ian ran up the front set of stairs to his room, easily locating his CTA card in the pocket of his jeans from yesterday. He took the back set of stairs because they were closer to his bedroom and ended up in the kitchen. He was looking down at his phone, texting to Lip that he was on his way, as his feet hit the bottom step. 

“Hello, son.”

He started jerkily, whirling around in the kitchen. He’d thought he was completely alone, and even as he moved he was running through a mental sound-off— _FionaLipDebbieCarlLiam_ —that his whole family was out of the house, but _oh_. Frank. Frank was also part of his family, at least technically, even if Ian never thought to account for his location.

Frank was sprawled beside the kitchen table, pouring some kind of liquor from a flask into his coffee mug. Ian restrained himself from sighing in disapproval, crossing his arms over his chest instead.

Something about watching Frank drink always made Ian feel immeasurably prissy. It wasn’t like Ian didn’t get fucked up on his own or with Lip or Mandy whenever he wanted, but seeing Frank blithely backstroke through the morass of career alcoholism made Ian want to purse his lips and cluck. 

“I have school,” Ian said, already edging toward the door.

“Your future’s not in higher education, let’s not kid ourselves,” Frank said with an extravagant wave of his hand. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Ian replied tiredly. Years ago, this tactic might’ve distracted him, but at the weathered age of sixteen he was already familiar with Frank’s almost neurotic need to categorize his children for easy dealing: Lip The Smartass, Fiona The Martyr, Ian The Dumbo, Debbie The Saint, Carl The Crazy. Ian doubted Frank had gotten to the point yet where he could describe a single facet of Liam’s personality.

“Have a seat with your father, Ian. No one likes to drink alone.” Frank waggled the flask in front of his face.

Ian hesitated, said, “I’m going to be late for first period,” but it was token. First period was PreCalc, and he had already grown to hate it with a low-grade passion.

He sat down at the kitchen table beside his father, deciding he could spare ten minutes and still make it to the second half of class. 

“Haven’t seen you around lately,” he told Frank. 

Frank shrugged, unconcerned. “Been busy. Wheeling and dealing, making my percent. You’ve got to be willing to make your mark in this world, Ian. Heed my words.”

Ian sighed, eyes immediately beginning to glaze. Sometimes when Frank disappeared off the face of the earth for weeks at a time, Ian entertained the idea that maybe he missed his dad. But then Frank returned, and Ian realized he never really had one in the first place.

“I guess,” he offered. He yawned wide. Why did high school have to start so fucking _early_ , this was dumb. School was _dumb_. He was sleepy. The longer he lingered in the kitchen, the more tempting it was to go back upstairs and take a personal day.

“Heard you’ve been helping rehabilitate the poor Milkovich boy,” Frank said casually.

Ian blinked, more alert. “From who?” He snorted, the idea that Frank was keeping even the most basic of tabs on his children ludicrous. 

“Word on the street. You’re a minor celebrity, you know, drawing the poor thing out of his shell, teaching him to be a real boy again. A regular Anne Sullivan.” Frank chuckled to himself, obviously amused.

“Who?” Ian asked, already mildly panicked at the idea that his life was under some kind of neighborhood microscope. He might mentally grumble to himself about getting lost in the Gallagher shuffle sometimes but the truth was he craved the anonymity, the ability to slip through the cracks and do what he wanted to do.

He couldn’t help but feel like catching the eye of the monstrous hydra of gossip on the block meant nothing good for him, or more importantly, for Mickey.

“You’re a soft touch,” Frank was saying, still talking, always _still talking_ , dragging Ian back out of his head, “you get that from your mother. Always gave til it hurt, couldn’t stand the thought of a stray going unloved.” 

Ian raised both eyebrows. Monica was one of the most careless people he knew. He almost preferred Frank’s indifference to Monica’s uneven attentions. It hurt more, coming to rely on someone only to have them flit away and disappear when the mood struck.

“I don’t think I’m like Monica,” he said.

Frank looked at him sharply. “You watch your mouth. You should be so lucky, to take after your mother.” He took an almost aggressive chug from his now-Irish coffee. “You kids, you don’t know how good you have it. You don’t know how things can change on a dime, _bam_ ,” he said, snapping his fingers with a pop, “and you’re on your ass. Talk to your new Milkovich friend. He knows. He can tell you, how lucky you are, how fucking grateful you should be to me and your mother, for putting a roof over your head, for keeping you safe.”

And that was that, Ian decided, standing up so abruptly his chair squeaked on the tile. “See you around, Frank.” He slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Thanks for keeping us safe, I guess,” he threw over his shoulder. 

He didn’t register the hit until he was pressed face-first to the refrigerator, a magnet securing one of Liam’s drawings to the surface digging into Ian’s chin.

“For such a dumb kid, you got a real smart mouth on you, son,” Frank said, voice dropping dark, darker than it ever got when he was talking to any of his other kids. Ian wondered why that was, why Frank never felt the need to maintain his everybody’s-favorite-drunk song and dance when it was just Ian around.

“I’ve got to get to school,” Ian said, slightly breathless. His cheek was starting to hurt. PreCalc was looking pretty good. He wished like crazy that he’d left earlier with Lip.

“You ever hear the story of the original Boy In The Box?” Frank said conversationally. He didn’t let up on his grip on Ian’s shoulder. He was surprisingly strong, for such a wiry, rangy drunk. Ian didn’t even try to wiggle away, determined to wait it out until Frank lost interest. He always did. 

Frank continued, voice tripping carelessly over the words. “Bet you didn’t know your little friend wasn’t the first, did you? Newspapers today, they don’t have any true imagination, just recycle everything, nothing’s sacred.” Ian thought maybe Frank would be lost to a rant, but then he seemed to catch himself, redirecting his tale. “They found another boy once, years ago when I was your age. Naked, left in a box. Except this boy was dead, he wasn’t lucky like your Milkovich friend.” 

Ian tensed at the implication that Mickey had somehow gotten off light, but Frank didn’t seem to notice, like he never noticed anyone else when he was gaining momentum on a story. “He was some poor orphan up near Philly. It took a few people stumbling upon him and his box before anyone called the police. Can you imagine that? Finding some boy in a box, or maybe it was suitcase—either way, finding him but leaving him for the animals to get at?” He tutted disapprovingly in Ian’s ear, at the very _idea_ of someone being neglectful to children. Ian kept still, prey-like, staring at the corner of the magnet he could see until it went fuzzy.

“He might’ve been found earlier, if the people who knew just spoke up. People always know, don’t they? A little boy can’t just disappear to parts unknown for years without people knowing more than they’re willing to let on.”

Ian wanted noting more in the world than to escape this moment and flee to the safety of the high school. He felt like he was absorbing the ugliness of Frank’s words into his very bones. Even worse, he felt like Frank was trying to do him some kind of favor, dropping a hint or clue or piece of advice that was meant to assist Ian in some way, but maybe Ian really _was_ the dumb idiot Frank seemed to think, because he couldn’t for the life of him unravel the truth in his words.

“I’ve got school,” Ian dared to say again.

With startling swiftness, Frank stepped back, the sudden lack of support making Ian stumble backwards.

“Have a good day at school, son,” Frank said pleasantly, and sat back down at the kitchen table, draining the rest of his mug.

Ian stared for a second, caught off-guard as always at the neck-snapping speed of Frank’s shift back to affable drunken buffoon. But he didn’t waste too much time, hurrying out the door to catch the late bus. 

In the end, even though the conversation in the kitchen had seemed to stretch for eons, Ian made it to PreCalc with only a few minutes to spare. The teacher, Mrs. Lincoln, gave him a hard look but declined to write him up for the lateness. 

He nodded gratefully at her, but felt too shaken to really appreciate the good turn. He barely heard the rest of the lesson, something about cosines and tangents, who the fuck knew, because all he heard was Frank’s slithery voice in his head. _People always know, don’t they?_

When he saw Mandy in the hall on the way to Life Science, he felt drawn like a clingy magnet.

“Hey,” he said when she saw him.

She nodded stiffly at him. She moved to close her locker and walk away, but Ian grabbed her hand, holding her there, throat working in desperation.

“I’m not sorry for being with him,” he blurted out.

That startled Mandy into stillness. She looked at him, eyebrow arching, looking identical to Mickey for a moment. 

“It didn’t happen on purpose, but it did happen, and I’m not sorry it did.” He bit his lip, realizing he was doing the opposite of an apology. “I’m not sorry. I know why you’re mad at me, and I should’ve told you sooner, but it’s not like what you think. It’s...it's _good_ , and I’m not sorry about it.”

Ian let go of Mandy’s wrist, his hands shaking so hard he curled them into fists. He hadn’t meant to sound so defiant, but standing in the hallway, looking at Mandy’s stubborn face, he felt an answering belligerence rise up in his chest. 

Mandy was his best friend, but he wasn’t going to lie just to make her feel better.

Only after did he realize how high the stakes were there. That he was actually gambling his best friend. He held his breath, head aching with anxiety. 

Then Mandy breathed out suddenly on a huffing laugh. “Well.” She shook her head. “As long as you’re not sorry,” she said, lips twisting wryly. “I guess I’m not sorry either.” She poked Ian hard in the shoulder. “I’m not sorry for protecting my brother, and I’m not sorry for refusing to trust some horny teenage boy with his safety, even if that horny teenage boy is my best friend.” She poked Ian again, her face going hard. “It freaks me out and I’m worried about him and I’m not sorry for that, either. And I’m not sorry for getting mad at you.”

“Fair enough,” Ian said. He waited, still unsure where they stood, if they were winding up for another round here or what.

Mandy poked him one last time in the shoulder, right in the muscle at the socket joint, and Ian yelped. “God _damnit_ , Mandy, fuck. That hurts.”

“Fucking man up,” she said dismissively. She was still stiff, but now she looked nervous the way Ian felt, but too stubborn to back down. “I’m not okay with this. I don’t think this is good for him.” 

“I don’t know if it is either,” Ian admitted, deflating. “But I think he should be able to decide for himself.”

“Easy for you to say,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What if it was Lip? What if he’d been hurt and I got all up on him?”

“I’d probably get fucking mad as hell at you too,” Ian said. He sighed. “Would you stop seeing Lip just because I asked you too?” 

“Probably not,” Mandy said, and smirked. 

The early bell for class rang, and they both turned in the direction of the science labs.

“Walk me to class, asshole?” Mandy asked, voice still a little stiff from their fight, but a bridge nonetheless.

Ian didn’t stop until he was bumping into her completely, resting his shoulder and hip against her. “Sure,” he said. He was too relieved to fight his own clinginess 

“Good,” she said. She slung an arm around his waist, frowning lightly. “We cool?” 

He shrugged, unable to even visualize recapping where they stood as friends, but tightening his grip on her waist anyway. “How’s your day?” he asked on a shrug.

She eyed him for a moment, then let it go, for which Ian was unendingly grateful. She stepped away for a second to slam her locker shut, then moved right back into Ian’s space, walking down the hall with him still holding his waist, their steps slightly clumsy.

“It’s okay, Geometry’s stupid and I think whoever invented it is an asshole, but other than that, not the worst morning ever.” She hesitated, then added, “Dad’s been taking Mickey on jobs.”

Something in Ian’s chest jolted. He guessed it was some kind of targeted, hyper-focused concern. It actually hurt a little.

“No shit?” When Mandy nodded, he shook his own head. He wondered why Mickey hadn’t mentioned it before. “Fuck. That doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“Tell me about it,” Mandy said bitterly. “But this new social worker, she’s been telling Mickey that it’s okay to try doing the things he used to do. She was talking about, like, reading. And hanging out with Iggy and our other brothers and shit. But my dad decided she meant _working_ , like going on runs and stuff.” 

“Fuck,” Ian said, because he couldn’t think of anything big enough to convey his dismay.

“I think the last one he took them on was just some scam, nothing too dangerous,” Mandy said, almost like she was trying to reassure herself. “I wish he was just coming back to school. I hate that it’s just him in the house with Terry all day now. But my dad says he’s not ready for school, not yet.”

“Maybe he’s just worried,” Ian offered.

“Maybe,” Mandy allowed. “He didn’t seem to mind leaving Mickey on his own all day with me, but Terry’s been antsy as hell ever since this new social worker came on the scene.” She looked up at Ian and squeezed his hip. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.” 

“I’m not worried,” Ian said, squeezing her shoulder back. He didn’t like how upset Mandy looked, and he didn’t like that she seemed to also feel responsible for keeping Ian on an even keel, too. He should be the one comforting her, it was her fucked up family, after all.

“Good,” she said. “Let’s be not worried together.” They’d reached their classroom and detached from one another as they stepped in, going to their normal lab table in the back corner.

“Deal,” Ian said. 

The rest of the school day dragged. Ian’s mind was on Mickey, on the need to go find him that afternoon and reassure himself that he was okay.

He walked back to the Milkovich house with Mandy. It felt nice, being on Mandy’s team again.

They walked inside to find Mickey sitting on the couch by himself. He was reading a book in his lap, the TV on but muted, tripping through the bright colors of some infomercial channel. 

“Hey, Mickey,” Ian said, something loosening in his chest.

Mickey looked up, eyes fuzzy, like it took him a moment to yank himself out of whatever book world he’d been immersed in. When he saw Ian and Mandy standing in the doorway, he smiled carefully, obviously surprised that they were coming home together. 

“You learn something new today?” he asked. It sounded carefully rehearsed, like something he’d heard on TV.

Mandy collapsed next to him on the couch. “Some species of mushroom can make their own wind, apparently,” she told him, parroting a fact from their Life Science experiment earlier.

Ian sat on Mickey’s other side, pressing his knee against Mickey’s thigh. Conscious of Mandy’s watchful eye, he let his hand drop into the space near Mickey’s hand, pinkies brushing, but falling short of actually holding hands. “They use it to spread spores when they’re at the bottom of the forest floor,” he added.

“Huh,” Mickey said thoughtfully. He closed the book in his lap.

“What’s going on in the secret garden today?” Ian asked, nudging the book.

Mickey’s smile grew. He ducked his head, like he was trying to play it cool and conceal how totally into his book he was, the nerd, Ian thought fondly.

“Mary found her cousin behind the wall.”

“Shit,” Mandy said. “They were keeping her cousin behind the wall?” 

“Kind of,” Mickey said. “Like, it was a room. He was hidden because his legs didn’t work.” 

Both Ian and Mandy went still, the image of some boy kept captive drawn by Mickey’s words catching them off guard. They shared a cautious look, but Mickey seemed unaware of the turmoil, flipping back to look at an illustration in his book with unconcern.

“Shit,” Mandy said after a pause, this time with grave disapproval. “These people sound like assholes, whoever hid him." 

“They’re not so bad,” Mickey said reasonably. “His nurse talks to him, and he has a nanny who reads to him and shit like that. They pay attention to him.” 

 _People always know, don’t they?_ Ian hated that Frank’s words were still tripping through his head. Nevertheless, he wondered about the people who had kept Mickey, the people who knew. There had to have been some of them, didn’t there? The ones who fed him and made sure he didn’t die or freeze locked in that shed. Who eventually buried him in that box.

He wondered if they had paid attention to him like the people in the book had supposedly paid attention to this crippled boy. He wondered if Mickey thought about them, or if he could even remember them.

“Ian?” Mickey was looking at him expectantly, or at least he was watching Ian’s face, eyes darting from feature to feature. 

“What? Sorry,” Ian said, realizing he’d lost the conversation. 

“You want to hang out?” Mickey asked, sounding like he was repeating the question. 

Ian darted a quick look at Mandy. She held up both hands. “Don’t look at me. I mean, this is fucking weird.” She gestured between them with distaste. “But I’m not your goddamn chaperone. Go be lovebirds some place else, if you want.”

She sounded suitably dismissive, very sisterly, but Ian could hear the resigned note beneath it all. She was still not thrilled that Ian and Mickey were ostensibly together. She might not be, ever. 

He tried not to feel to guilty about that. It was hard.

“Okay,” he said to Mickey. Then he smiled, unable to suppress it. He kicked Mickey’s foot lightly. “Yeah. Let’s go.” 

They walked aimlessly for a while until evening began to fall, and then unsurprisingly Ian noticed Mickey herding him subtly in the direction of the abandoned building. Mickey nudged Ian gently with his hip or shoulder rather than give verbal directions, content to walk in silence, really. He seemed upbeat, though, keeping Ian within touching distance as they walked, glancing sideways at him intermittently. 

After a while, Ian blurted out, “Mandy said you’ve been working with your dad.” 

Mickey nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is that…do you think.” Ian rubbed his hand over his head, frustrated. “You think that’s a good idea?”

They stopped to let a car pass before they stepped out onto the street and Mickey took the time to look at Ian. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Ian said immediately. He didn’t want to nag, to imply that he didn’t think Mickey could look out for himself. He could. But Ian still worried.

“I mostly just watch the car,” Mickey added. “I think my dad’s…it’s…he’s taking it easy on me.” He chewed his lip, considering. “I think.” 

Ian thought of what Mandy had said earlier, that she thought her dad was trying to keep Mickey close because he was worried.

He supposed this was what it looked like when a parent who wasn’t that good of a parent to begin with tried to do right by their kid. Like when Monica took them on “shopping sprees” that were really shoplifting adventures at the mall. Or Frank deigned to get drunk in the kitchen and lecture his children on their failings and the failings of America at large. 

Fucking shitty parents, Ian thought derisively.

They’d reached their usual building and began climbing to the roof in silence. They accumulated a variety of items in the weeks they’d been coming here—a ratty blanket to protect against the gritty concrete, a lighter, a few books Ian checked out from the library that he thought Mickey might like.

They settled on the edge of the roof like they normally did. 

Ian gazed out at the charred remains of the building that had burned down at the beginning of the summer.

“Do you know why you did it?” He nodded at the black hulking shape. He’d skirted around the issue before, a little uneasy at Mickey’s apparent ease with destruction. 

“Maybe,” Mickey said. He scooted closer on the roof so his feet knocked more easily with Ian’s. Ian threw an arm around him, pulling him in close. He liked the solid feel of Mickey at his side, even the bony poke of his elbows and shoulders, finally gaining heft after months of Mandy’s intensive feeding regimen that she’d revealed to Ian one afternoon.

“It felt important,” Mickey said after a pause. His words were slow and measured and Ian let himself drift in the melodic sound of Mickey’s voice. “I hated that building, and it felt like…I needed to fuck it up. Like, my brain wouldn’t stop telling me to tear it down, but not why. It was easier to just, drift. To do things without thinking about them. And once I burned it down, I just felt…better.” He shifted at Ian’s side. “Well, not better. But my brain stopped telling me to hate it.”

“Do you know why you hated it?” 

Mickey shifted again. He seemed restless. He settled his hand on Ian’s leg, fingers squeezing fitfully at the material of his jeans. Ian stared at the tattoos on the knuckles, the all-caps always startling. The tattoos had been kind of his calling card back in the day, the youngest Milkovich brother who would FUCK U-UP if you crossed him, well-known enough that Ian knew about him, even if he didn’t _know_ him, not then.

“Can we stop talking about this?” Mickey asked softly.

Capturing Mickey’s hand with his own, Ian squeezed gently. “Of course.” He leaned his head on Mickey’s shoulder, hunching a little to accommodate his shorter height. “Just watch the fucking sunset, alright?” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Mickey said without rancor.

Ian smirked, and held Mickey’s hand, and they watched the fucking sunset. And if Ian spent more time stealing glances at Mickey’s face than watching the actual sun, it was nobody’s business but his own what a fucking sap he was becoming.

 

***

 

Poker was something Mickey was discovering he was very, very good at. A few weeks after Terry had taken him to Indiana, and started working Mickey into his rotation of illicit Milkovich labor, Iggy and the other brothers had begun to bring Mickey into their fold as well, only somewhat reluctantly.

Mostly that involved playing poker at the kitchen table after dinner, and Mickey kicking his brothers’ asses.

It wasn’t even on purpose most of the time. He barely remembered the rules. It was like letting whatever subconscious he had take the wheel for a few hands every night.

“How the hell can you still be so good at this?” Iggy grumbled, forking over the colored chips in the center of the table. “Like, aren’t you supposed to be stupid now?”

Mickey could tell Iggy was baiting him, so he shrugged. “Not as stupid as you, I guess.”

Iggy kept grumbling. “Seriously. How are you doing this?” 

Colin sighed, following Iggy’s lead, as usual. “Maybe he’s cheating.” 

Mickey looked at the paired queens in his hand that he’d set down on the table. “How can I cheat if I barely remember the rules?” He gestured at Iggy’s hand of cards. “So the queen is higher than the jack?” 

“Yes,” Iggy grumbled, “ _barely_.”

Mickey smiled thinly at him. “But enough.” He swept the pile of chips closer to him with both hands.

They were playing on some kind of IOU system, because Mickey didn’t have any money to buy into the game anyway and Iggy was notoriously cheap. Mickey had brief flickers of memories of arguing with Iggy about loaning Mickey a few dollars for the movies, about short-changing someone on a baggie of weed, Terry’s rumbling disapproval at Iggy being such a tightwad.

But the years had obviously only made Iggy cheaper, and he’d jumped at the chance to “practice” playing poker without anything real on the table. 

Joey was playing with his phone, ignoring the game in front of him. He was like a shadow for his brothers, rarely engaging or even fully awake for the mischief Iggy and Colin got up to, but always around.

Mandy was finishing up dinner, some sort of casserole, and smirked at the pile of cards on the table. 

“Why do you do this to yourself, you idiot?” she asked Iggy, shaking her head.

Terry waltzed into the kitchen. There were no free chairs at the table, so he kicked at the legs of Colin’s chair. “Out of my seat.” He nodded at Mick. “Need to see Mickey about a job.” He smiled that in-cahoots smile he’d taken up since their first job in Gary, like he and Mickey were partners in crime. It made Mickey wary, and also tired, like he was constantly acting a role.

“Buy-in’s twenty bucks,” Iggy told him, distracted, still scowling at his losing hand on the table. 

Terry kicked at Colin’s chair with extra force and Colin shot to his feet, stepping away quickly. 

“I’m not paying money to see my own son,” Terry said, sitting down at the table with a glare.

It was a little like getting hit on the back of the head, or kicked, really, the force of the sudden reminiscence making Mickey’s whole body seize.

What was even worse was that he wasn’t exactly sure _what_ he was remembering. All he knew was that he heard his dad say the words, and the sense of déjà vu became almost sickening in its intensity. He'd heard him say those words before, somewhere else. Somewhere bad.

He didn’t realize he was rocking back and forth in his chair until the kitchen was silent. Even then, he barely saw anyone around him, rocking back and forth in his chair, trying desperately to soothe his reeling mind.

He had a distant recollection of rocking like this in the past, while he was away, when he was locked in the dark and he had nothing to calm his panicked head but the soothing, repetitive calm of continual movement. He couldn’t think of it, though, he couldn’t think of any memory, it was all too close now and he felt liable to burst at any moment.

“Mickey?” Mandy asked softly from the kitchen sink.

Mickey kept rocking, wrapping his arms around his chest until he felt compact like a ball.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?” Iggy asked, leaning back from the table.

“He’s going fucking nuts,” Colin said, sounding uneasy. 

“Shut up,” snapped Mandy. Mickey could sense her moving closer but he couldn’t stop rocking, afraid that if he sat still, whatever memory was threatening to break through in his mind would break free, tearing through the tissue and sinew like some evil clawed bird.

“Mickey?” she said, right beside him now. She touched his shoulder and Mickey jerked away, rocking, rocking, still rocking. 

“Stop that,” Terry said sharply. “Mickey, you need to knock it off.” His vice was rising in angry panic. 

“What the hell did you do?” Mandy demanded of Terry, her shock making speak more sharply to their dad than any of them would normally dare. 

“I don’t know,” Terry shot back, too upset to react to Mandy’s insubordination, “I didn’t do shit, he just lost it.”

There was a harsh, high-pitched keening sound in the air, growing steadily louder until Mickey realized it was him, _he_ was the one moaning like that, and like the rocking, he couldn’t _stop_ , and that scared him more than anything.

Terry brought his hand down with a harsh slap on the kitchen table, the sound ringing. “Goddamnit, I said stop that!” he shouted. He grabbed hold of the table edges with both sides, lifting and throwing the table up then down onto the tile so the whole thing clattered and shook.

Mickey reared back in alarm, clattering out of his chair and onto the ground. He stared up at Terry, frozen in fear.

“Mickey,” Terry said, looking down at him, looking dazed. 

“Dad,” Mandy hissed, accusation rife in her tone.

“I didn’t mean to—I didn’t _do_ anything,” Terry argued, agitated.

Mandy shouted back that he’d obviously scared Mickey somehow, and Terry screamed not to fucking talk like that to him, and suddenly Mickey _couldn’t be in that kitchen anymore_. He felt on the very of helplessly keening again and he didn’t want that, he couldn’t do it. 

He got to his feet and scurried back to his room, leaving the argument behind him as it picked up momentum, ignoring the way Mandy called his name after him.

He bypassed his own room and went into Mandy’s, spying her cell phone on the dresser where she usually left it when she cooked so her brothers wouldn’t steal it.

He held it in his hand, heart still pounding, deliberating what to do next, the sounds of the fight in the kitchen still going strong.

It was a little like relearning how to use the microwave or the dishwasher. He’d watched Mandy unlock her phone before and swiped uncertainly, then stabbed his finger aimlessly around the home screen until a call log popped up. He tapped **Buttface Gallagher**  near the top of the recents and hoped that Ian was the aforementioned buttface.

Ian sounded smiley when he answered. “Mandy?” There was some kind of boisterous ambient background noise, and Mickey felt suddenly mute. “What’s up? Everything cool?”

“It’s Mickey,” Mickey said, voice small.

“Oh,” Ian said. “Hi. _Hello_. It’s weird hearing you on the phone—whatever. Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Mickey said. He hated the sudden note of worry in Ian’s voice. He liked it better when Ian’s voice immediately reverted to the happy, fizzy tone again.

“ _Yeah_ you are,” Ian said, giggling to himself.

“Can I come over?”

Ian snorted in disbelief. “You serious? Of course! Come over right now! Hurry. Party won’t wait.”

“There’s a party?” Mickey asked, feeling slightly reticent.

“Well, not really. Fiona and our neighbors brought some booze over, and then there was some weed, and I don’t know—Gallaghers know how to fucking party, what can I say?" 

Mickey supposed the same could be said about the Milkoviches, but the way they did it felt darker, somehow. He didn’t feel light and happy the way Ian sounded when his dad and uncles and brothers and cousins came around and all got fucked up together.

“You sure it’s okay if I come over?” he couldn’t help but ask. 

“Get your ass over here, Milkovich,” Ian said sternly, then ruined the effect by giggling some more, then hung up.

Mickey climbed out the window the first time since the beginning of the summer, the motion awkward after having gotten used to using the front door. He’d gone soft, let his guard down, forgotten how easily things could break, and he could still hear Terry yelling at Mandy, and then Terry yelling where _the fuck_ had Mickey gone, as he ran down the street, away from his own house and toward the safe harbor of Ian’s on the other side of the block. 

Ian was sitting on the front porch waiting for him when Mickey got to the Gallagher house. He looked at his bare wrist like he was consulting an invisible watch.

“And, time!” He shook his head at Mickey, smiling lopsidedly. “Seven minutes. That is not a personal best, let me tell you.”

His hair was a mess and his face was flushed and as he stood up he wobbled the tiniest bit on his feet. Mickey wanted to rub himself all over him like a giant cat.

Ian frowned as he stepped closer. “You okay?” He gestured at Mickey’s face. “You look all…shakey.”

Mickey shrugged, even as he felt the way that his hands and arms and shoulders were, indeed shaking.

On sudden impulse he gave into the urge to bury his face in Ian’s shoulder, pitching forward, Ian catching him with a laugh. Mickey breathed in deeply through his nose. Ian smelled like sweat and deodorant and hair gel and some sweet liquor like schnapps and Mickey just wanted to roll around in it, smell it all the time. 

Ian brought his hands up to wrap around Mickey’s shoulders. He squeezed the back of his neck. “Yikes,” he said. “You are _tense_ , dude.” 

“Yeah?” Mickey mumbled into his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ian confirmed, kneading the taut muscles at the top of his back. “Here, sit.” He stepped back and then eased Mickey away from his neck, to only mild protests from Mickey. He maneuvered Mickey forward until he was sitting on the porch in between Ian’s legs. “You should let me give you a back rub. I’m the best at them.” 

“Oh really? Champion back rubber?” Mickey said, trying to tease, his voice falling flat. 

He felt Ian nod vigorously behind him, nuzzling the crown of his head. “Uh, _yeah_. Fiona’s always had this weird neck thing because she sleeps all curled up like a ball, and _dude_.” He brought his hands up in front of Mickey’s face and waggled his long, pale fingers. “Magic fingers. Trust me.”

Before Mickey could protest, Ian dug his fingers into the tight muscles at the top of Mickey’s back, and Mickey groaned. Ian rubbed the tension loose like he was kneading dough, working his way down the delicate reefs of muscle on either side of his spine, going steadily until Mickey was hunching forward, his whole body tingling and limp.

It was a different kind of touching, more rough and impersonal than Ian’s normal tentative, wide-eyed tracing of Mickey’s body, but somehow more devastating. Like Ian’s hands were claiming Mickey’s body as his own and Mickey was just letting them, happy to give up ownership if he kept touching him like this. 

“We should go upstairs,” Ian whispered into the nape of Mickey’s neck. His voice was husky, like touching Mickey this way was affecting him just as much as Mickey.

Mickey nodded, feeling off-kilter and hot and aroused and vulnerable and in the end he let Ian pull him up and lead him inside, following obediently behind him.

Some kind of family party was in full swing in the Gallagher living room. Mickey recognized Fiona and Lip and the two younger siblings, a tall white guy with a ponytail and a black woman with amazing boobs and some squirrely looking white dude hanging on Fiona that Mickey instinctively didn’t trust. Liam was asleep in a pen in the corner even though the music was loud enough to make Mickey wince.

“Mickey!” Fiona called out when she caught sight of him. She waved, her face bright and flushed. She looked drunk and happy. “Good to see you, buddy!” 

Mickey waved weakly, but Ian towed him along, not even stopping to say hi. Mickey followed him until they were in the boys’ bedroom at the end of the hall. Ian locked the door firmly and turned to Mickey, his eyes bright and more focused now than they were when Mickey had first walked up.

Ian walked toward him, smiling happily, like they had all the time in the world. Mickey tried to wait, tried to calm himself down, to keep from pouncing on Ian like some kind of wild, panting animal, but he was only partially successful.

When Ian was within reach, he opened his mouth to say, “So, what do—” but his words melted into a loud “ _whoa_ ” as Mickey yanked his shirt and manhandled him onto his twin bed. 

“Whoa,” Ian said again. “That was— _whoa_. _Hello_ , Mickey.” He smiled bright, looking so dorky Mickey just wanted to _lick_ him everywhere.

Mickey bent over him, sitting half in his lap, breathing heavily, he wasn’t sure why, but he couldn’t catch his breath, he just needed to be closer, to get Ian as close as possible, to get him _in_  somehow.

Smile dimming a little, Ian reached out to cup his cheek. “Hey,” he said softly. “What’s going on in there?” He tapped Mickey’s temple with one long freckled finger.

“You should fuck me,” Mickey said loudly, unable to regulate the volume of his voice, too worked up to care too much.

Ian looked like he was trying his best not to choke on his own spit. He was mildly successful. 

“Um.” He swallowed, hand tightening reflexively on Mickey’s cheek. “You want—are you sure?”

Mickey nodded, eyes dark and serious. “Yeah.”

“Have you…done that?” Ian gestured with his free hand in a way he apparently felt conveyed _taken it up the ass_. “I mean, before?”

“I think so,” Mickey said. He nodded. “Yeah. A couple times, I think.” He’d been young back then, after all, but not too young to have fucked around like everyone in the neighborhood fucked around, or at least the people he knew did. 

He bit his lip, considering, careful not to probe his memories too much, but he knew enough about what he liked to jerk off too, what he dreamed about when he woke up aching and covered in come, to know what he wanted to do. “I know I like to take it.” 

Ian coughed. “Jesus, you can’t just _say_ stuff like that,” he said, feeling how wide his eyes had gotten. 

“Why not?” Mickey said, leaning closer to he could feel Ian’s breath on his cheek. 

“Because I’m a horny teenage boy, you can’t tease me like that,” Ian said. He exhaled dramatically. “You drive me crazy.”

Mickey felt himself settling somewhat, moving easily into the role of predator to Ian’s flushed, innocent prey. It was how it should be, he reasoned, Ian was good, so nice and sweet and pretty to look at, and everything in Mickey felt so dark sometimes, he was almost scared of how much he wanted to just _eat_ Ian, to bite him and mark him, and Mickey didn’t think that was normal.

He didn’t _feel_ normal, especially not tonight.

“Mick—” Ian tried to say, but Mickey couldn’t listen to anymore words tonight. He dove forward, kissing Ian in a clash of tongue and teeth. He thought he tasted blood but he licked it away, swallowing every taste he could get. Below him Ian squirmed, then moaned, going slack and passive in a way that made something inside Mickey howl.

He bit his way down Ian’s neck, sucking a deep bruise in the skin near his collarbone. 

Ian moaned, gasping out hotly against Mickey’s temple. “Fuck,” he breathed. He arched back as Mickey latched on to the hollow of his throat, sucking hard. “ _Fuck_ , Mickey.”

Everything else felt so far away, the party downstairs, his house, his dad, family, everything terrible that had ever happened to him, it all went soft and indistinct.

Mickey tore at his clothes, hearing some seam rip, but he barely noticed, throwing his clothes in a pile so he could rest his whole body against Ian’s, groaning at the feeling of a warm, firm, gangly body beneath his own.

Ian grabbed Mickey’s hips and rocked against him, making them both groan obscenely loud at the contact. Even through Ian’s jeans, Mickey could feel him getting hard, big and thick, and he clenched his ass, distant muscle memory telling him he liked this, he wanted this, he need this to happen _now._  

He tried to pull away, to tell Ian, but Ian reached down and grabbed Mickey’s ass, squeezing hard enough to make Mickey whine, kissing him deep and sucking on his tongue as he used his grip on Mickey to rock them together, again and again and again. 

Finally, Mickey yanked himself back. “Wait,” he said, gasping. “Wait, you can’t—I’m going to come.”

Ian grinned, his face red and shining. “That’s the idea, right?” He leaned up, trying to get at Mickey’s mouth again. Mickey leaned back. He didn’t want to rub off against Ian tonight, he wanted something else, too much noise was piling up in his head and he needed _more_ than that.

“You better fuck me or I swear to god,” he said, trying to sound threatening, but his breathlessness made it sound more like a plea.

“Okay,” Ian said, eyes wide. “There’s—shit, I’ve got stuff in my backpack, hold on—”

Mickey sat back enough for Ian to wiggle free, throwing himself awkwardly off the side of the bed and digging around for his backpack. Mickey wrapped a hand around his cock, squeezing the base, feeling crazed and ready to go off just at the way Ian’s hip rubbed his thigh as he searched under his bed. 

He reemerged, triumphant, a baggie of packets, Mickey assumed most of them were condoms, clutched in his fist. “Got it!” he crowed.

Mickey tackled him to the bed, the baggie falling above his head as Mickey yanked as his shirt frantically. Ian got the message and unbuttoned his jeans, twisting until he was naked too, panting, his pale chest almost glowing in the dim light of the bedroom.

“Shit, Mickey,” he muttered, staring up like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Mickey looked away, the eye contact more painful than ever, the wonder in Ian’s eyes too much for Mickey to take right now.

“Get in me,” he said on a grunt, grabbing Ian’s wrist to yank it down between his legs.

“Hey, hold on,” Ian said on a jerky laugh, “let’s bring some lube to the party, huh?” 

Mickey held still, trying not to shake, waiting for Ian to reach for the baggie and pull out a small packet, squeezing the clear lube on his fingers. Mickey blinked, having totally forgotten that was even a thing. He felt rusty, out of practice at something he hadn’t even really had a chance to get good at in the first place.

Then his mind went blank and he forgot about everything else as Ian’s slick finger danced around his rim. While Mickey had had a vague idea that he liked this, that he’d fumbled around with other people back Before, it was nothing compared to the actual reality. The heat of Ian’s hand cupping him, one finger pressing in, his thumb rubbing the thin skin between Mickey’s hole and his balls.

Mickey pitched forward, holding himself above Ian on shaking arms, breathing into his shoulder as Ian pressed his finger in deeper, his free hand rubbing up and down Mickey’s back soothingly.

“That okay?” he whispered. “Do you like that, Mick?”

Mickey couldn’t do anything but groan, the sound high and reedy, his eyes squeezing shut as he felt another finger push inside, the burn and stretch so perfect, everything he wanted, too immediate and consuming for Mickey to think of anything else, the pain going from sharp to something deep and mellow that made Mickey’s brain feel soupy. 

“God, you feel good,” Ian muttered, sounding mindless. “You feel so fucking good, _fuck_.” He added a third finger, working and spreading them until Mickey practically roared, shoving his ass down on the pressure, and Ian swallowed, pulling his hand free.

Mickey groaned, hating the empty feeling. “Get in me,” he said, his mouth dry. 

“I am, hold on,” Ian said, fumbling for a condom.

Mickey was about to snarl and complain again when Ian looped his arms under Mickey’s knees, bending him in half and grabbing his cock to guide it to Mickey’s hole. 

He tried to go slow, thrusting incrementally, but Mickey growled and shoved against Ian’s hold, impaling himself on the length of Ian’s cock, the pressure overwhelming and enormous and enough to take his breath completely away.

Ian gaped down at him, his face inches from Mickey’s, eyes wide like plates, drinking him in. He hovered above Mickey with shaking arms, his whole _body_ shaking really. Mickey’s hands were gripping the sheets by his hips, fine trembles seemed to be working their way through his own body, too, as he peered up at Ian in wonder through the window of his bent knees.

Ian smeared a messy kiss on Mickey’s mouth and pulled away, then thrust back in, but Mickey immediately rebelled at his own immobility.

“Don’t move,” he said, his voice a snarl, and Ian went immediately still, that automatic obedience making Mickey’s cock ache and drip. 

Mickey’s legs were bent high, his knees practically by his elbows, but he used what tiny leverage he had to drag his body back and forth, riding the length of Ian’s cock. He was bouncing on the mattress, shaking the frame as he picked up speed, the loud party downstairs drowning out Mickey’s grunts and yelps and the pounding cadence of both their gasping breathing.

“Jesus,” Ian breathed, “god, you look—yeah, come on, fuck yourself on me.” His face went even more red, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, but he leaned back to stare down at his cock disappearing inside Mickey’s body, his hips shaking but remaining still, letting Mickey move on him from below.

Mickey had the fleeting thought that even though Ian was inside him, Mickey was doing the fucking, and the thought that he had that kind of power with Ian, right here, in this moment, that Ian was _letting_ him, made him drive the pace harder and faster, forcing himself down onto Ian’s cock until his rim was burning, his stomach and legs were shaking with fatigue. 

“Here,” Ian said softly. He braced a hand under Mickey’s ass and wrapped the other around his cock, stripping it hard and fast, matching Mickey’s pace. Mickey threw his head to the side, biting onto the pillow and screaming into the fabric, feeling so wild it felt like he was leaving his body, letting some deep visceral part of him take control, fuck Ian until he couldn’t hear or think or feel anything but the cock inside him. 

“Shit, Mick—you have to, please,  _come_ ,” Ian pleaded, starting to thrust helplessly into Mickey, adding to the force, hand still on Mickey’s cock, twisting his wrist, and then he pressed a single, soft kiss to the side of Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey’s body bent like a bow, every muscle going taught and rigid as he came. He went limp, letting his ass and hips finally drop to the mattress, his overtired muscles quivering.

Hunching over him, Ian looped his arms under Mickey's knees and started thrusting jerkily, too close to the edge himself to sustain any but the most desperate of rhythms. Mickey’s mouth dropped open, every inch of his skin nearly burning with oversensitivity. He was starting to ache, his ass and arms and legs and belly sore as hell, and then Ian turned to kiss him, moaning loud into his mouth as he came. 

Blearily, Mickey was aware of Ian pulling out and padding out of the room. Mickey lay on the bed, heart racing, staring at the ceiling.

His mind was completely dark, and completely quiet, and it was absolutely beautiful.

Ian returned with a damp cloth and gently wiped Mickey down, kissing his forehead but thankfully not requiring Mickey to speak or answer any questions beyond following directions to move as Ian rolled him onto his side.

Like before, Ian settled in front of him, giving Mickey his back as he pulled a sheet to rest over them, their bodies sweat-sticky. Mickey curled around him, resisting the mildly possessive urge to bite the meat of Ian’s shoulder, settling for pressing his whole face into the crook of his neck.

“I had a few texts from Mandy,” Ian whispered into the dark room after a moment. “She was worried about where you were.”

Mickey curved closer around Ian’s back, unwilling to leave the seductive silence of the dark, all-consuming headspace he was in.

“You’d tell me if something was going on, right?” Ian said.

Mickey didn’t answer, but he snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around Ian’s waist.

Before Ian could ask him anything else, Mickey drifted away into the most blissful sleep he could remember having in his entire life.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TUMBLAAAH: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to past child abuse, homophobic language.

***

**October**

***

 

Mickey wanted to stay at Ian’s all the time. Everything was simpler here, pressed in close between the wall and Ian, Ian spreading out carelessly in sleep so his arm and leg draped over Mickey’s body.

Lingering wasn’t an option though apparently, when Lip came to stand over them both, staring down at Mickey, awake and watching Lip alertly, and Ian, mouth open as he snored. Lip snorted, kicking Ian’s mattress so they both shook.

“What,” Ian muttered, jerking awake.

“Yo,” Lip said, voice scratchy. “Get the fuck up. School.” He eyed Mickey. “And you have to go home and do…whatever it is you do, during the day.”

Reluctantly, Mickey scooted out from under Ian’s arms and legs. Ian’s fingers clutched at the hem of his shirt, hands twitching as he stretched languorously.

He smiled dopily up at Mickey. “Hey,” he murmured. “I’m glad you stayed over.”

Lip threw his head back and groaned loudly. “Oh my god, it’s too fucking early for this lovey dovey shit.” He hooked a spare shirt from the ground with his foot and kicked it into his hands, then threw it at Ian’s face. “Get dressed. We’re late.” He continued on to Liam’s crib, scooping the baby up, who was standing and gripping the wooden bars patiently. “Hey little buddy! I know, they’re gross. I find them gross too! _Yuck_.” He kept babbling at Liam as he carried the toddler out of the room. 

“Balls,” Ian muttered. He sat up and pulled the shirt on over his head. Sometime in the night, they’d both pulled their underwear back on and Mickey watched Ian stagger around the room, half-dressed.

In the bottom bunk, a bare foot stuck out of the covers and Ian slapped it on the sole. “Carl. School.”

Carl groaned and rolled over, mumbling to himself. Ian turned to shake his head conspiratorially at Mickey, but he didn’t know what to do with his face, how to react to the casual intimacy of watching Ian and his brothers get ready for the day, so he looked down at the ground to search for his jeans.

They got dressed and Ian pressed a slightly sour kiss to Mickey’s mouth, smiling at Mickey’s thoughtful frown, then pulled him out of the room. He smacked Carl’s foot one last time as he bent to retrieve his backpack. “Up, or we’re leaving you behind and Fiona’ll have your lazy ass.”

Downstairs, Fiona was struggling listlessly with the coffeemaker. Her eyes were bleary when she looked up and saw Ian and Mickey coming down the stairs.

“Hey Ian, hey Mickey.” She turned back to the coffeemaker, then seemed to register what she’d seen. She turned back. “Hey, Mickey. Huh. I thought I saw you last night, but then I couldn’t remember if…you’d really been here…shit.” She closed her eyes and clutched the back of her head. “Fuck you, tequila.”

Ian bumped Mickey with his hip. “You want breakfast?”

“You will have breakfast,” Fiona said sternly, eyeing Mickey’s thin wrists even as she winced at her headache. 

She made them both eggs and toast, and Mickey watched idly as she stumbled around preparing lunches, and Lip brought Liam down to be fed. Debbie and Carl came clattering down the stairs eventually too, arguing over who took longer in the bathroom even though Fiona said they were both allowed _fifteen minutes each_ , that was the _rule_ , and Mickey sighed, thinking of his own family. Of his dad, and Mandy, and how the Milkovich house never seemed this light and free of dark, twisty problems.

“You should get going,” Ian said as Mickey ate the last of his eggs. “Mandy’s been texting me. Maybe you can catch her before she leaves for school.” He raised his eyebrows like he thought Mickey should _definitely_ be doing that, no maybes about it.

“Okay, just relax,” Mickey said, a little miffed at being hurried out of the house. As he stood from the stool, Ian grabbed at the loose material of his jeans. He glanced back at his siblings, but they were occupied with some Gallagher-wide argument about hot lunch versus Fiona’s bag lunch (Lip and Fiona: bag lunches were cheaper. Debbie and Carl: bag lunches might be cheaper but they were _disgusting._ ), and poked at Mickey’s knee. It was weirdly soothing, Mickey thought, irritated.

“I kind of wish you were coming to school with me, but then, I kind of like you, and I wouldn’t wish school on my worst enemy.” Ian had to crane his neck to look up at Mickey, a full head shorter for once when he was seated on the stool. 

“You’re so dramatic,” Mickey said with a roll of his eyes, but he was smiling now. He met Ian’s eyes, and wished they were back upstairs. Or over on the roof of the abandoned building, or the old baseball diamond, or anywhere, really, just the two of them.

“Ian,” Lip said, interrupting, as always. “Let’s hit the road.”

Ian kept his eyes on Mickey, ignoring his brother. “I’ve got ROTC after school, but maybe I’ll see you tonight?” Mickey nodded, and with one last tug on the leg of his jeans, Ian got up and left with his brothers and sister for school. 

Fiona was stroking Liam’s fuzzy head absently, staring into the depths of her coffee cup. She blinked when she saw Mickey was still in the kitchen.

“You alright, kiddo?” She was frowning, the skin around her eyes puffy and tired. She reminded him of his own mother for a second, the recollection sudden and fleeting and surprising in its strength, the image of a dark-haired woman who looked weary and exhausted by worry overlaid on Fiona's younger face. 

He nodded, and Fiona smiled crookedly. “You want some food for the road?”

“We’ve got food at my house, too,” he grumbled, both annoyed and strangely flattered that his apparent frailty triggered a deep-seated need in Fiona to feed him.

“You’re too skinny,” she said.

Mickey looked up at her, slightly exasperated. “You sound like Mandy.”

“Well, Mandy knows what she’s talking about.” Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of. Sounds like you need to go talk to her, huh?” She tugged her earlobes at Mickey’s startled look. “Parent ears. I hear _everything_.”

Mickey left after that, the image of Fiona’s tired face mutating into the unclear features of his mother’s face, back and forth as he walked

Mandy was waiting for him on the front steps of the Milkovich house when he got there, antsy and bouncing on her feet. She ran to him as soon as he turned the corner of the house. 

She hugged him tight, startling him a little. Then she pulled back and slugged him hard in the shoulder. “You dick,” she raged. “You fucking _dick_. You can’t just run off! You need to stop doing that!”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, as Mandy hugged him again, even that gesture fraught with aggression, somehow. “I just. I had to leave.”

“Well.” She stepped back, sighing. “You’re still a dick.” She looked up at the sky like it was easier to understand than her volatile, unpredictable brother. It probably was. “What happened, Mick? You just…you really freaked Dad out.” Distantly, a car horn sounded, loud and obnoxiously long. Mandy worried the straps of her backpack. “You freaked me out, too.” 

“I don’t know,” he said. That part of the night before was already submerging into the murky part of his mind that kept dangerous memories under lock and key. 

He remembered Terry’s words— _I’m not going to pay to see my own son_ —but not much of what had happened after, or why it had startled him like it did. Everything was indistinct until he ended up at Ian’s house.

Mandy looked grim, but resigned. “I’m late for school,” she said. “Can you just—can you promise that you’ll _be here_ when I get back? Not running off to Ian’s?”

Mickey nodded, even though he wasn’t completely sure he could promise that. The pull to run away, if not to Ian’s than at least to somewhere far, far from his dad and the Milkovich house, was strong. 

Mandy narrowed her eyes, sensing his flexible honesty. “Dad’s not home, you know. He had a job with Uncle Ronnie. I said I’d let him know when you got back, but he should be gone all day.” She rolled her eyes. “I have a feeling he’s going to be avoiding the house for a while now, anyway. He always does when he feels guilty.”

She watched Mickey visibly relax, chuffing out of a laugh. “You’re so skittish still. You’re like a deer.” She began moving toward the bus stop, walking backward so she could keep her eyes on him. “I’ll make chicken and rice casserole tonight. Okay?”

Chicken and rice casserole was Mickey’s secret favorite of Mandy’s dishes, although he’d never told her. It seemed impossibly selfish to have a favorite type of food, when he’d barely had any food for so long and now someone else was actively cooking for him _every single day_.

He smiled at that, and waved awkwardly as Mandy disappeared around the corner. He went inside, the house blessedly free of Terry, of Joey’s snores, of any Milkovich but him. He changed clothes and grabbed Black Beauty, too antsy to stay in the house, the kitchen a threatening reminder of losing control, of keening high to himself like an animal, of rocking back and forth as he was cornered by unwanted memories.

He took his book and one of Colin’s old sweatshirts by the door and escaped from the house into the neighborhood to find a quiet bolthole to hide in for the day.

 

***

 

Ian’s favorite thing about being back at school was ROTC. Ian loved the steady, repetitive ease of ROTC training on Wednesday and Thursday afternoons. He loved thinking about the future, and the fantasy of being a hero, saving people and taking fantastic risks and saving the day.

He wasn’t such a big fan of Rogers.

Rogers was the new drill runner for ROTC. Ian didn’t remember disliking him in the spring when he’d been introduced to the squad, but this fall he was definitely wary of the guy. He kept coming around Ian’s row during drills, finding excuses to adjust his posture, touch his lower back, stand behind him and move his elbow when he was holding the wooden gun. 

“He’s not the most creepy dude I’ve ever seen,” Lin, one of Ian’s ROTC friends, said out of the corner of her mouth to Ian as she watched Rogers patrol the row in front of them, “but he’s not the _least_ , either.”

“Word,” Ian said, sighing. He was getting tired of this shit.

How did these assholes always find him, he wondered wearily, trying his best not to flinch away when Rogers came near on his way back. What was it about Ian that sent out this silent, flashing homing signal to older men who fancied themselves Different Than All Those Other Creeps? Was it his eyes or his face or his dumb red hair, something subtle but clear enough that a certain type of man could see it?

Even though it seemed too simple, it still felt like an easily actionable item and so he resolved to get a haircut. At least that way he was actually doing something, rather than waiting like some skinny redheaded deer for the next loser to strike.

But the worst part was, Ian was coming to doubt his own ability to thwart the advances of guys like Roger, guys like Kash. It was so easy to lean into it, or at least not lean away, to let them pet his ego, tell him how special he was, how beautiful and sexy, and even though it made him feel better it also made him feel impossibly lame that he believed them.

Not that it mattered, now that he had Mickey, Ian thought, privately smug. But then he thought of how worked up Mickey had been when he’d come to the house the night of the impromptu Gallagher party, how far away he’d seemed at times while they fucked, like he was taking Ian inside himself to get away from everything on the outside, and he couldn’t help but feel jittery. 

Sometimes he forgot that being with Mickey wasn’t any less complicated than fucking around with Kash.

“You want to get Taco Bell after drills?” Lin interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at her, taking a moment to track her question.

“Um.” He’d been planning to swoop by the Milkoviches as soon as ROTC ended. 

“It’s just, I haven’t seen your shadow around lately. Thought maybe you’d like some company?” Lin blushed, looking away. It took another moment for Ian to understand what she meant, that she was talking about _Mandy_ , not his other Milkovich-shaped shadow, and oh shit, he was at school. He was straight at school, pretty much. 

“We’re kind of…going through a thing,” he offered lamely. Mandy wasn’t actively avoiding him anymore, but things still felt stilted sometimes when they talked so he didn't feel like he was lying.

“Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m free,” Lin said, shifting her wooden gun to tuck her hair behind her ear.

Lin was sweet, and he felt bad letting her down, so he tried to do it easily. “Thanks, it’s just, I’m kind of…seeing someone else.” He paused at the ring of truth to the statement. He’d never bothered to hint at seeing anyone when he’d been with Kash, or Roger Spikey or the handful of other guys he’d messed around with, happy to keep up the theatre of Mandy as his girlfriend.

But he thought of the other night, of Mickey’s eyes wide and bright like he was trying to drink Ian up as he shifted and fucked himself on Ian’s cock below him.

He was seeing Mickey Milkovich, he confirmed to himself. He smiled ruefully, and Lin sighed and turned away.

When he left ROTC later, his phone chimed. For a split second, he smiled, thinking maybe it was Mickey with Mandy’s phone again, even if the thought seemed bizarre. Sometimes Mickey seemed barely tethered to everyday things like phones and school and after-school jobs, like a fairy creature, liable to flit away when Ian wasn’t watching.

It was a message from Linda. _You want the night shift at the store tonight?_  

He stopped walking, staring at his phone. Before he could think of a response, or what he even wanted that response to be, another message chimed right behind the first. 

**KASH**

Linda said she’s going to ask you to fill in for the new kid, just heads up. 

**KASH**

You don’t have to, if it’s weird.

**KASH**

I miss you.

The afternoon was unseasonably steamy for early fall and Ian shook off his ROTC uniform jacket as he stood at the corner, staring down at the phone as a whirl of emotions whooshed over him, shock then anger then full-on fury then embarrassment and finally the cold-hearted Gallagher mercenary need to assess.

If he was another kid in another family, he could easily tell Linda no thank you and Kash to go fuck himself. He already had another job, and sure the library was less hours and slightly less pay (but not by much, Linda was infamously tightfisted when it came to fifty-cent raises every six months), but he wasn’t technically without income. He didn’t have to work at the Kash N Grab again if he didn’t want to.

The urge to selfishly decline was strong. 

But he thought of Fiona, like he always did when he thought of money. He thought of Frank, always creeping around at the edge of their collective consciousness as a family, ready to steal whatever money they’d managed to accrue. 

And he thought of bringing in an extra handful of money for the squirrel fund. He thought of Fiona’s grateful look and Lip’s begrudging smile, even as he could hear the slightly-more-realistic Lip in his head asking him why he thought he needed to be a fucking hero all the time.

He thought of promising Mickey, too, and how he’d broken up with Kash, and debated whether this broke some kind of unspoken rule between them, but he only thought of it for a second, only long enough to decide that no, this was his business. And it wasn't like he hadn't planned to keep working when he'd first broken up with Kash. It was Kash that blocked him out. This was just going back to Ian's original plan, he told himself, successfully convincing himself that he wasn't some lovelorn, heartbroken kid. He could handle this.

He sent Linda back a message saying he’d take the shift. He ignored Kash’s message, because fuck him. 

He considered going home to change, but he had his school clothes in his backpack and figured he could change in the back and get to the store in time to start his shift on the hour. 

He considered texting Mandy, but it wasn’t like they had official plans to hang out today, and really he just wanted her to tell Mickey he was working (but not at the Kash N Grab, no, Mickey didn’t need to know that) so he wouldn’t worry.

But it wasn’t like him and Mickey had concrete plans either, so he put his phone back in his pocket and picked up the pace as he headed to the store.

He hoped that maybe, just maybe, Linda would be in shift when he got in, but Ian had never been lucky, and when he opened the door and the bell tinkled, Kash looked up from where he was stocking cans in the soup aisle.

The urge to immediately roll his eyes was nearly overpowering.

“Hey,” Kash said hesitantly, straightening up. Ian felt a pang of arch satisfaction that Kash looked tired, with bags under his eyes. It made him look every one of his thirty-four years.

Ian ignored him and went behind the register, throwing himself on the stool with slightly more attitude than necessary. He pulled out a magazine and started reading about celebrity post-pregnancy diets.

“It’s good to see you,” Kash tried again, coming nearer the register.

Ian did look up at that, raising an eyebrow.

Kash held up a hand, looking guilty. “I know,” he said. “I know you’re pissed.”

Ian looked back at the magazine. He was here for the paycheck, and Kash didn't know _shit_. He’d do his shift, get his money (hopefully under the table) and go home, maybe go see Mickey afterwards.

But Kash was still talking, looking at him pleadingly. “I just needed some time, you know?”

Ian skimmed through the magazine, realizing the articles bored him. He had a sharp, completely unexpected longing to be in the YA section of the library stocking returns, idly flipping through the books when he paused to straighten to stretch his back, getting caught up in the stories despite himself. He wondered if that was how Mickey felt, getting pulled under by the tide of the words almost before he realized he was getting into it. 

He blinked, realizing he was longing for the _library_. 

“You seem different,” Kash said, apparently taking Ian’s silence for encouragement. Ian tried not to preen, because Kash was goddamn _right_ he looked different, he wanted to rub Mickey in Kash’s _face_ , but he couldn’t tell him about Mickey, could he. Mickey was the one who came in here months ago and beat him up, stole his gun (though no one knew about that but Ian), and while he was thinking that through, Kash’s eyebrows furrowed. “You seem…tired.” He put his hand on Ian’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Ian shook his hand off, immediately irritated. “I’m _fine_ ,” he grunted.

He just wished Kash would get on with it and ask Ian to get back together already, so he could shoot him down and get back to waiting out his shift in relative peace.

Before Kash could say anything else though, a skinny Mexican kid came in through the back, hefting a box, and stopped at the sight of Ian. “Hey,” he said, his voice high and young sounding. 

“Hey,” Ian said back. “Delivery?”

The kid nodded, and Ian recognized him a little. He’d made deliveries at the store for his dad before, and he was a year behind Ian in school. Ian thought his name was maybe Julio. Or Jose. Jorge?

“Jaime,” Kash said, looking up. His face was bright as he smiled. “Here, let me help you with that.” He rushed to relieve the kid of his box, and Jaime blushed, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ian tried not to care that Kash had basically forgotten Ian was there. He didn't care. It wasn’t like Ian wanted to get back together, but okay, _maybe_ he wanted the opportunity to shoot down the asshole who’d basically blacklisted Ian from a job for refusing to sleep with the boss. Was that so wrong? Ian didn’t think it was so wrong.

He watched Jaime look at the floor shyly. “That’s okay, Mr. Karib,” he said.

“No, let me help you get the rest of the shipment,” Kash said, already walking out the back door.

“But my dad says—”

“I insist,” Kash said, throwing a grin over his shoulder at Jaime. Jaime smiled down at the ground. Kash looked at Ian, his smile a little sharper than it had been when he was looking at Jaime. “You good to handle everything for a minute?”

Ian gave him a flat look. Was this why he’d been called in to work? Had Kash decided now was the time to rub this new pretty young thing in his face? Because joke was fucking on _him_ , Ian thought stubbornly, because he was still getting paid regardless.

“All good here, boss,” he said through his teeth.

Kash nodded and went out the back, and Jaime chanced a glance back in Ian’s direction too before following Kash. 

Ian’s belly went surprisingly cold as he watched. Jaime looked nothing like Ian, but Ian still felt like he was watching a stunt double saying his lines.

He had an unwilling memory last summer, of dragging his feet as he walked into the store, nervously asking the tall, handsome Arab man behind the counter about a job.

“How old are you?” the man, Kash, obviously, had asked, smiling warmly at him.

“Seventeen,” Ian had lied, his voice squeaking traitorously. He’d hunched his shoulders. “Sixteen—fuck. Fifteen.” 

“We’re not supposed to hire kids that young,” Kash had said, shaking his head.

“Please,” Ian had said, stepping forward urgently. That very morning he’d walked downstairs to find Fiona crying at the kitchen table, rubbing her eyes and changing the subject when she saw Ian, but Ian knew the date. Rent was due, and they were behind, and he wasn’t a _kid_ , no matter what Fiona or Lip or the guy at the counter thought. And he needed the job. “Please,” he said again, making his voice deeper, spreading his shoulders as he stood up straight. “I promise I’m a good worker.” 

Now, a year later, he stared at the empty doorway where Kash and Jaime had disappeared to the loading bays, and sighed. 

Had Kash liked Ian at all, or had Kash liked a _type_. It made him think of Mickey, wretchedly, almost against his will. Did Mickey like Ian because he liked _Ian_ , or did he like him like Kash probably did—because he was young and attractive and easy, so fucking easy, _god_ , he shook his head, a horrible taste in his mouth.

“Ian,” Linda said, surprising him. She was standing right in front of the counter. Ian started, how the _hell_ had she wandered in without him noticing? She tapped the top of the counter. “You okay?”

He shook his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Totally.”

Her face went stern as she arched an eyebrow. “Then look alive out here. I don’t want to come in and see half our inventory’s walked out the door.” She turned to scan the aisles. “And where’s my useless husband?”

“Shipment out back,” Ian said, trying to keep his voice casual. 

Linda rolled her eyes. “Any excuse for a break.” She pointed shrewdly at Ian. “Get your head in the game, Gallagher. Don’t make me come back there.”

Her voice was teasing, or as much as Linda ever teased, and Ian tried to smile back.

He hunkered down behind the cash register, watching the clock on the opposite wall, willing it to go faster as it counted down the end of his shift.

 

***

 

The cold made Mickey’s bones creak, although it didn't necessarily make him feel _cold_. The cold didn’t seem to bother Vicky either way. She was the one who had suggested they move their meeting from the living room to the broken down picnic table in the raggedy backyard. Mickey suspected she just wanted to escape Terry’s watchful eye, and it wasn’t like he was opposed to that either. 

Terry hadn’t spoken to Mickey in the week since that awful night in the kitchen. He hadn’t taken Mickey on any jobs, either. He seemed wary of triggering another episode, and while Mickey was a little insulted by the implication that he was on the brink of some kind of mental collapse, he also savored the reprieve from Terry’s targeted attention.

Like a lot of their meetings, Mickey and Vicky didn’t talk much. She seemed content to watch him read, and ask him the occasional question about how his days were going, of which there was rarely anything interesting to report. She hinted at a tutor she’d been talking to who she thought might be a good fit for Mickey, chatting idly about coursework.

Mickey wasn’t really listening, too caught up in the end of The Secret Garden. He’d already finished it a few days ago but he found himself rereading the last chapter over and over, almost memorizing it. 

“Do you like autumn?” Vicky asked out of nowhere. She gestured at the fallen leaves. "I love when the leaves turn colors. Do you like the fall?"

Mickey put off answering until he reached the end of his sentence in the book. Then he looked up at Vicky wearily. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t really remember.”

Vicky nodded, then, “Do you ever think that you’d like to remember things like that?” 

The ease of the suggestion irritated Mickey. “No,” he said stubbornly.

“Why not?” The only reason Mickey didn’t shut down and ignore her completely was the careful evenness of her voice.

“Because it’s over,” he said, not really making sense because autumn was obviously just beginning, but Vicky was nodding again, like she understood that he wasn't just talking about his fucking seasonal preferences, so he continued. “It doesn’t matter what I liked before.” He closed his mouth, struggling for the triumphant end to his short tirade, but it eluded him. He ground his teeth, frustrated. 

“You just want to move on?” Vicky guessed.

Mickey nodded fervently. That was all he wanted. He just wanted to let this go, but more importantly, he wanted everyone around him to let it go too.

“I don’t want to remember,” he said, shooting Vicky a wry look. “Not just about _fall_." Somehow it was easier to talk to Vicky about this, because she was the only person in his life who addressed it so directly. Even Mandy, and sometimes even Ian, preferred to dance around it, afraid of upsetting Mickey. It was annoying sometimes. "I don’t want to remember anything that happened to me. I want it to be over.” 

“I can understand that,” Vicky said, like Mickey was being completely reasonable. “Sometimes I think that…”

She trailed off, and Mickey only realized how much he wanted her to finish that sentence when she didn’t. He looked up and noticed Vicky was staring intently at his hands.

“Has your hand always done that?” she asked, gesturing at the way his hand rested on the spine of the book.

He curled in protectively. “No,” he muttered, then amended it to, “I don’t know.”

She reached out to touch his wrist, then paused. “Can I?” she asked.

Mickey mulishly considered telling her no just to see what she would do. But she seemed content to wait for his permission, and after a long moment, he gritted out, “Fine.”

She took his left wrist into her hand and tipped it over, examining the palm before gently bending the fingers into a fist. “Does this hurt?” she asked.

Mickey shook his head, but as he watched her maneuver his hand, stretching the fingers out as far as they would go, he began to notice that the fingers didn’t go flat. He tried to straighten them too, but even with the added pressure of Vicky pushing carefully, they stayed half-bent the whole time.

“But it doesn’t hurt?” she asked again. 

“No,” Mickey said. He was frowning as he took his hand back, opening and clenching it shut, like momentum would help loosen the digits. It didn’t. He couldn’t extend his hand the whole way. He tried his right hand, staring at the webbing of his fingers as he flexed. The right hand was better, but the fingers still wouldn’t lie flat. 

As he flexed harder the joints finally began to protest, creaking painfully, so he stopped.

Vicky took the right hand and tried to stretch it out too, humming as she did so. She looked up at Mickey. “Hm.”

“What does that mean?” Mickey asked, still looking worriedly at his hand. “Why can’t I open them all the way?” 

Vicky tapped her thumb lightly over the outside of his hand, making a considering sound. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s some kind of nerve damage.” 

Before Mickey could ask what the hell _that_ meant, Mandy’s voice interrupted them. “What are you doing?”

Mickey turned from the picnic table to see Mandy on the porch, watching Vicky holding Mickey’s hand suspiciously. She walked over to where they sat, sitting down roughly between them so that Vicky had to shuffle back awkwardly.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” she asked Mickey. She didn’t ask to touch him, taking his wrist into her hand and shooting Vicky an accusing look, like she suspected the social worker of some kind of nefarious intent with Mickey's hands. She looked back to his hands, turning it over and back, examining it closely.

“It’s fine,” Mickey said, trying to tug his hand back, but Vicky interrupted, “He can’t straighten his fingers back all the way.”

The whole scene in the backyard was making him dizzy with déjà vu. Mickey had dim recollections of similar conversations when he’d first been found and brought to the hospital. He’d been largely unresponsive, and most of the words and conversations he’d heard had the hazy nonsense quality of a dream. He vaguely remembered talk of developmental _somethings_ but it had been far too technical at the time to snag his interest. But he did remember one doctor in particular, mostly because of how gently she’d handled him as she examined him, a lot like how Vicky had held his wrist moments before.

The doctor back then had touched the nails on his hands and feet, noting the softness, how they bent easily under her own strong fingernail beneath the latex gloves. She touched his hair, trying to keep her eyes from going wide when puffs of it came off easily in her hand. She touched the pale, scaly skin on his inner arms and neck that itched at the contact. She carefully straightened out his arms and legs, eyeing the way the swollen joints hampered the movement, but sighing in relief when they eventually gave way.

There had been an instant where she’d blinked and looked down, but Mickey had been certain, in that vague, drifting way he’d been certain of anything back then, like a ghost watching something happen from far away, that her eyes had filled with tears. 

He was reminded of her, suddenly, when he saw the mirrored concern in Mandy’s eyes, and the carefully shrouded worry in Vicky’s face as she watched Mandy touch his hands. 

“How long have they been like this?” Mandy asked. Her voice was low. 

“I don’t know,” Mickey said, but again Vicky inserted herself, “I think they’ve been like this for a while.”

“I never noticed,” Mandy murmured. She sounded like she was talking to herself.

"I never noticed either," Mickey inserted irritably, but Mandy and Vicky barely glanced at him.

Vicky shrugged pragmatically at Mandy's distraught face. “It doesn’t seem too severe, and Mickey says it doesn’t hurt.”

Mandy looked at Mickey. “Has Dad seen this?” she asked, but before Mickey could answer she was on her feet, pulling him into the house. 

“It’s fine, Dad doesn’t need—”

“Mickey, your hands aren’t working right.” She yanked open the screen door and towed him in behind her. The door slammed and she brought him into the living room, standing directly between the TV and the couch, where Terry was laid out in his boxers and an undershirt. 

“What the fuck, Mandy,” Terry said irritably, but quieted when he saw Mickey trailing behind her. He pursed his lips, still edgy and guilty around Mickey but stubbornly refusing to acknowledge it. 

“There’s something wrong with his hands,” Mandy said without preamble.

Mickey watched Terry sit up, suddenly alert. “What the hell do you mean? What did you do?”

Vicky had caught up by then and stepped in before things could spiral. “I just noticed outside. He seems to have some dexterity problems.” Mickey looked up at her, eyebrow raised. Vicky didn’t usually sound pompous like this, hanging on the safety of big words. 

Terry gestured for Mickey to approach, and he did so reluctantly. His dad went for his hands but then paused like Vicky had done and looked at Mickey, waiting. Mickey could only assume his dad’s latent guilt over the other night was making him so courteous, or maybe it was the presence of the social worker. Or maybe his dad was broken, who the hell knew, everyone was acting weird out enough about Mickey’s dumb hands that anything seemed possible.

Whatever the reason, Mickey nodded and held his hands out for his dad to grasp.

He felt a little like a puppet as his dad took his turn opening and closing his hands, taking note of the way Mickey’s fingers went taut and refused to extend to their full length. He pushed harder than Vicky or Mandy had, and as he exerted more pressure on Mickey’s left hand, Mickey winced.

“Dad,” Mandy bit out, and Terry released Mickey’s hands immediately. 

“Jesus,” he muttered. He looked at Mickey, eyes searching. “How long have they been like that?” 

Mickey just looked back at him, wide-eyed. He didn’t understand everyone’s panic at his hands. He hadn’t even noticed. He’d gotten used to them. If anything, he thought maybe the cold was to blame. 

“I’m going to have to put this in the report,” Vicky said.

Terry looked up at her, scowling. “I didn’t do this,” he said, eyes challenging. 

Vicky exhaled impatiently. “I wasn’t suggesting that,” she said. “I meant that it probably has something to do with his ordeal. With the conditions where he was being kept.” 

The meaning behind Vicky’s words didn’t connect for Mickey right away, and even when they did— _where he was being kept_ —he felt strangely empty. If he really pushed himself now, several months out from his initial daze at being rescued, he could sometimes remember being cold and being somewhere small, but that was it. He couldn’t recall details, even with physical evidence, like his slightly clawed hands sitting right in front of him, hinting sinisterly at something he could no longer recall.

“I think we’ve all been taking his recovery for granted,” Vicky ventured. To Mickey’s surprise, she sat down comfortably on the living room couch beside Terry, propping her face in her hands. She looked young as she stared sightlessly at the TV, thinking.

“I haven’t taken _shit_ for granted,” Terry started, always revving for an argument with Vicky, but she just waved a tired hand in his direction.

“Not just you. There have been so many encouraging signs—the reading, the progress in his speech, he’s put on weight—that I think we’ve all gotten carried away.” 

It was the first time Mickey had ever heard Vicky sound so discouraged. It made Mickey nervous. It was bad enough that they were talking about him like he wasn’t there, but the way Vicky was describing him made him sound like a time bomb about to erupt.

“I think we might be at the end of the road with what we can accomplish here, purely at home,” Vicky said. She sat up, spine straightening stubbornly. “I’m officially recommending a more aggressive treatment plan, and if you fight me on this, Mr. Milkovich, I’ll be forced to—”

To Mickey’s astonishment, and from the looks of it to Vicky and Mandy’s as well, Terry cut Vicky’s tirade off at the legs. “No, you’re right. I know you’re right. His hands—he needs help.”

Mickey stared at him in shock, and noticed that his dad’s face was white. He looked at his hands again, trying to see what the others were seeing. He made a fist and then straightened them out. He watched the fingers bounce back automatically to a half-curl when he stopped trying to straighten them. He didn’t see the horror that everybody else seemed to be seeing, but then, maybe he was desensitized to horror more than they were. His hands didn't seem nearly as dangerous as the messy mire of thoughts and memories and fears in his head, but he supposed that was a lot less obvious to other people than it was to him.

“What could’ve done something like that?” Terry asked. He was looking at Mickey’s hands again too.

Vicky’s voice was surprisingly gentle, much softer than it usually was when she dealt with Terry. “I have no idea,” she said. “Possibly restraints?”

Terry’s head snapped up. “Easy with that shit,” he hissed, and it took Mickey a few moments to realize Terry was watching him worriedly.

Mickey did his best not to snort at the unexpected call for delicacy, like if they kept talking about what had happened in carefully broad strokes Mickey wouldn’t freak out like he'd done in the kitchen again. As if there was a rhyme or reason to what would trigger a memory. 

Vicky stood up, putting her hands on her hips. “I’ll talk to my supervisor, get some referrals. Maybe we can find a trauma center closer to your house.” 

“Trauma,” Terry repeated. The word sounded deeply out of place coming from Terry’s mouth.

“Yes, _trauma_ ,” Vicky said testily. “That’s what we’re dealing with, here.”

“But he was getting better,” Terry objected, weakly. He looked stunned like a shipwreck victim, leaning back in his recliner.

Mickey wanted to interject and argue that just because he fucking hands weren’t working perfectly didn’t mean he wasn’t getting better, because he was, things were still confusing and messy but they were _better_ , but once again he didn’t seem to be a main participant in the conversation.

“He _is_ getting better,” Mandy objected for him. She took a step closer until her shoulder bumped with Mickey’s.

But hearing Mandy say it jarred his own sudden uncertainty that maybe Vicky was right. Maybe he _wasn’t_ getting better. Maybe he never would. It was like a part of his brain was becoming self-aware, the part of his brain that experienced _doubt_. He’d never be the boy he was from Before, he knew that. But for the first time he wondered about the boy he was now, who he was becoming, or if he was even capable of becoming anyone anymore. 

Vicky squeezed his shoulder as she stood up. “I have another case across town I need to get to." She looked at Terry, considering. “I’ll call you with the arrangements once I make them, but they should be soon.” It sounded like a challenge, but Terry still seemed so distracted by Mickey’s hands, of whatever troubling realization they represented for him, that he just nodded unseeingly.

“I’ll see you soon, Mickey,” Vicky said. Her smile was tighter than it usually was when she said goodbye, and Mickey watcher her leave, then retreated to his bedroom. Mandy and his dad let him go. Nobody seemed to know what to do, Mickey least of all.

After Terry passed out on the couch and Mandy was doing homework in her room, Mickey went to stand in her doorway. 

"I'm going to Ian's," he said, trying not to sound too defiant about it. 

She sat up. “Oh." She sounded surprised. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.”

“Just so you,” he said, coughed, then gritted out, “so you won’t worry.”

Her face lit up, making him blush at her simple joy in being included, and left before he could do anything else embarrassing. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about Vicky and Terry and their concern about his hands, and he couldn’t stop clenching his hands, and he couldn’t stop worrying about what it _meant_ , that he wasn’t doing as well as everyone thought.

The next thing he knew he was at Ian’s house. He knocked on the front door and waited. When nothing happened, he knocked again, louder this time, hoping that was the normal thing to do. He was about to knock again with the screen door swung open roughly.

“What the fuck,” Lip bit out, standing before him. He was squinty-eyed and didn’t seem to recognize Mickey immediately. “What do you want, man? I was napping.” 

Mickey gritted his teeth, staring at the ground. His mouth felt clumsy. “Ian…is Ian?”

Lip lifted his chin in exaggerated desperation. “Is Ian…what, man? I was _napping_ ,” he repeated on a whine.

Mickey bit his lip, considering that if Lip had answered the door if he was sleeping, it meant no one else was home to do it, because Ian wasn’t home. He didn't think Ian had work at the library after ROTC today, but maybe he was wrong.

“He’s not home,” Lip said irritably. Looking at Lip with his face puffy from sleep, his eyes narrowed and annoyed, Mickey was hit with the surprising urge to smile, and he never smiled around anyone but Ian, maybe Mandy sometimes.

There was something heartening about being treated with the same baseline irritation and disdain that Lip treated everyone outside his family, sometimes even including his family. It made it clear that Lip wouldn’t spare your feelings, not for no good reason.

He seemed like the type of person who would tell the truth, even if it hurt. Which was oddly anchoring, in the sea of Mickey’s own uncertainty.

“I need your help with something,” he said. He watched the transformation as, for the first time, Lip began to look intrigued rather than annoyed. 

“Alright, get your ass inside,” he said, and ushered Mickey into the house.

 

***

 

Leaving his third clandestine shift at the Kash N Grab, Ian wanted a shower. He felt dirty and dishonest, even though he’d shut down Kash’s attempts to talk in private, even though he was making money, even though there was nothing _wrong_ with taking a second job (that he wasn't telling anyone about, that he was lying to Fiona about and calling extra shifts at the library when she asked). He didn't know what was wrong with him. He felt out of sorts.

As he came in the house, he was tried as hell, slouching his way toward the kitchen where he smelled Fiona cooking. 

Debbie was doing homework at the table. Carl was quietly copying off of Debbie and looking away innocently each time she whipped her head around to glare at him. Ian smiled as he watched them for a minute, and Fiona seemed to sense him there.

“Mickey’s here, he’s upstairs,” Fiona said, back still turned to the stove.

Ian looked at her in surprise. He’d been planning to swing by the Milkoviches later anyway, but this just saved him a trip. “He is?”

She turned to Ian, a spatula in one hand, her eyebrows raised. “I thought you didn’t have work after ROTC today?”

“Took an extra shift,” Ian said, back of his neck flushing at the lie. “We can always use the extra money, right?”

Fiona snorted. “From your mouth to god’s ears.” She smiled at him. “You’re a good kid, Ian.”

Ian snagged a piece of broccoli off the counter from where a heap of de-thawed veggies sat, ready to be stir-fried, ignoring Fiona’s squawk as he threw the half-frozen piece in his mouth. He eyed the food. Fiona’s veggie stir-fry was legendary, but rare.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked suspiciously.

“Jimmy might be coming by,” she said mysteriously, and Ian rolled his eyes. Her weird boyfriend was not an occasion, and she finally caved. “Mickey looks like he’s about to die from scurvy! That kid needs vitamins.” She poked Ian in the side with her spatula, misinterpreting his gaze apparently, which was probably for the best. He felt a little choked up, staring at his big sister and her special stir-fry made just for some underfed-looking kid she barely knew. “Stop judging me and go on, they’re upstairs.”

He heard Mickey and Lip talking quietly as he reached the top of the stairs. He couldn’t really fathom what Mickey and Lip would possibly have in common to talk about. 

Ian wasn’t sure what motivated him exactly to pause just outside the door to the boys’ bedroom, but he did it anyway, standing just enough in the shadows that he was could watch Mickey and Lip interact without them seeing him for a moment.

His lip quirked as his eyes skimmed quickly over Mickey’s form, liking the way he looked in Ian’s bedroom, casually installed into his life.

Mickey was looking over Lip’s shoulder at the screen of the ancient family laptop. Lip’s mouth was downturned in concentration as he scrolled.

“I don’t know, a lot of this stuff is about psychological trauma, but you don’t—I mean, you can’t really remember enough to know what we’re dealing with,” Lip said distractedly.

“What does that mean?” Mickey asked on a frown.

“It means you’re not giving me much to fucking _work_ with—oh, you mean the word psychological?” Lip shrugged as he considered. “Like, in your head, kind of. Your head and your thoughts and stuff.” 

Ian watched Mickey and Lip pore over the results page on Google, although he was too far away to see exactly what they were looking at. Lip sighed, clicked something, clicked back to the search page, clicked again. He seemed frustrated.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “Like, I can look up shit on sensory deprivation—”

“What’s that?” Mickey demanded sharply.

“Like, being trapped somewhere where you can’t get out, like you can’t see or hear things, you know.” Lip had the decency to look down at his hands in his lap, uncomfortable when he apparently caught up with what he was saying so flippantly and who he was saying it to.

“Like what happened to me,” Mickey supplied flatly, watching Lip squirm for a second.

Lip nodded, toying with the trackpad on the laptop uncomfortably. “Yeah. Like what happened to you.” He swallowed but quickly resumed his searching, never one to let social discomfort to get in the way of investigating a problem, although Ian couldn't really tell whatever it was they were investigating together. He felt tense nonetheless, his curiosity keeping him spying from the doorway, and waited, hoping for their secret quest to reveal itself before he made his presence known. 

“But all I can find is what happens to you as a result—the losing your memory shit, the hallucinations.” Lip clicked harshly, scrolled for while. Clicked back.

“Hallucinations?” Mickey asked.

“We need to get you a dictionary, man," Lip said, shaking his head. “It means seeing shit that’s not there. Or hearing shit that’s not there.” 

He was pointing at the screen, growing frustrated but in a good-natured sort of way, typical Lip when faced with a challenge for his natural cleverness. “I mean, they did tons of studies, like the Navy and the government, and they’ve found kids like you before, but I’m not a fucking therapist, man. I don’t know what happens to teenagers when they’re kept in a fucking box for years at a time.”

Lip stopped, again seeming to remember his audience. “Sorry.” 

“It was a shed, actually,” Mickey said, voice still flat.

“Semantics,” Lip said under his breath. Ian couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine him rolling his eyes at being corrected.

Mickey sighed through his nose. “Apparently. I don't know for sure. That’s what they said, the doctors and Mandy and everybody. But I can’t really—the losing your memory shit, you know?” He did a fair imitation of Lip, which Lip huffed at.

Lip seemed to get distracted again. He was reading something on the screen, and Ian could sympathize with Mickey’s impatience as he tapped his knee, waiting for Lip to let him in on what he was thinking. Ian could sympathize, as Lip's eternal sidekick. 

“This is cool as shit,” Lip murmured, scrolling, reading, scrolling some more. He grew more animated as he read, sounding interested despite himself. “It’s one of the studies—fuck, it’s all about mental deficiencies. They were testing what being deprived of light and sound does to your brain, and it just, melts it, apparently. Shit.” He read for a while, lost in the world of cold, emotionless academia, ignorant of Mickey growing tense at his back.

Ian wasn’t, though, he couldn’t take his eyes off Mickey, his feet stuck to the ground outside the doorway as he watched Mickey’s hands start to shake. 

“It’s a lot about being in the dark though, can you remember if you were in the dark—” He stopped himself, finally, blessedly, coming back to the bedroom and Mickey behind him. He winced, the side of his face just visible to Ian.

“I’m sure recovery won’t be like that for you, though,” Lip said, awkwardly, and looked up at Mickey over his shoulder, and he finally caught sight of Ian standing just outside the doorway. He jerked in surprise, nearly falling out of his chair. “Fuck, Ian!” 

Mickey turned around too, much less startled. He looked stricken, and Ian had to hold himself back from going right to him and running his hands over Mickey’s body, murmuring reassurances, soothing him. But he couldn’t, not yet. He had an asshole brother to deal with. 

“Hey,” Ian said tightly to Lip. “Can I talk to you?”

Before Lip could respond, Ian moved forward and grabbed him by the waist of his shirt, yanking him up. He smiled tightly at Mickey as he moved. Mickey stepped back, eyes wide, as Ian dragged his brother out of the room and down the hall.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ian demanded, releasing Lip’s shirt only when they were safe inside the bathroom. He slammed the door shut, the thin wooden paneling vibrating at the violence.

Lip threw his hands up defensively. “I was just talking to him.”

“Yeah, about what?” 

“ _He_ asked _me_ , man,” Lip said, mouth twisting. “He seemed upset, and he had some questions, and—the fuck was I supposed to do, treat him like an invalid? He’s not a total idiot, even if he is a Milkovich.”

“What are you talking about?” Ian demanded. He felt protective and aggressive but he wasn’t sure about _what_ yet, just that his instincts were telling him that Lip was a threat to Mickey. 

“He wanted to know about other people like him.” Lip shrugged. “He wanted to know if other people like him ever go back to being normal again.” At Ian’s shock, Lip looked at his feet, still frowning defiantly. “Fair question, you know?”

Ian’s hands were shaking too, just like Mickey’s had while he listened to Lip blithely describe all the ways Mickey’s mind would probably be deficient because of what had happened to him. 

“And you thought,” Ian said slowly, resisting the urge to hit, to hurt, feeling a little out of control, “you thought, sure, why not?” He clenched his fists, wishing he’d gotten home just an hour sooner, or better yet, never taken the shift at the store and been waiting for Mickey when he’d gotten there in the first place. 

“What gives the fucking right, man?” Ian hissed.

Lip threw his arms up in frustration. 

“I’d want to know what I was up against,” Lip said, voice taking on that strident, condescending tone that made Ian seriously consider smacking him upside the head. “He has a right to _know_ , man. It’s no good coddling him, trying to heal him with the power of love or whatever the hell you think you’re doing. Kids like him—they’re up against some shit, Ian.” He made a strangled sound of frustration. “I’d want to know what my odds are.”

“He’s not a goddamn horse, Lip,” Ian snapped.

Lip glared at him. “I know he’s not, you know what I mean.”

And Lip would, Ian considered. Lip thrived on research, on knowing the odds, on calculating the best reaction based on the best background knowledge based on the best possible outcome of a situation. For Lip, knowing the barriers to recovery probably would make him feel safer, more tightly constricted within reality. 

But Ian could also see, like Lip always failed to, that most people didn’t have the context Lip did. Most people didn’t have the ability to sift through the averages and come out with a real-life expectation of how things would probably go. Ian sure as hell didn’t. He could only guess if Mickey did.

“You can’t just… _put yourself in his shoes_ , Lip,” Ian burst out. “This isn’t about how _you_ would feel, you have no idea how you would feel if you were him!”

“It’s called empathy, asshole, I can freaking visualize,” Lip shot back hotly. 

Not for the first time, Ian wished he was blessed with Lip’s ability to articulate his thoughts, but he wasn’t, he struggled, biting out each word. “What happened to him isn’t some controlled study at a university, Lip.” That seemed to sting, and Lip’s neck clenched as he worked his jaw. “You can’t…this isn’t…you’ll never really know what it was like, what it _is_ like, to be him.” 

Ian hadn’t really realized the thought had already been gnawing at his own mind until he said the words, and he rocked on his heels, overwhelmed like he sometimes got at the magnitude of what had happened to Mickey. It always made him feel very young and very stupid, and right now, very, very protective of Mickey and his happiness. 

Lip rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you can never really know another person, I get it, can we fucking move on, please, I just looked some shit up on Google for him.”

Ian took a step closer so their chests practically brushed. “You don’t know everything, Lip. Especially with this. Especially with him.” He poked Lip hard in the chest. “You have to be more careful.” _I have to be more careful_ , Ian’s mind echoed automatically, thoughts of Kash and the store and the secrets he was keeping now rising unbidden.

They both jumped as the bathroom door swung open, banging into the shelf on the other side. In the doorway, Mickey gave them both a dry look before he stepped inside the tiny bathroom.

“If you’re trying to tell secrets, maybe don’t yell at each other behind the thinnest door in the universe,” he said gruffly, coming to stand close to Ian’s side, their shoulders brushing.

Lip and Ian both glanced down sheepishly. Ian realized they had been basically yelling at each other.

“It’s not that I think you can’t handle—” Ian started to explain, but Mickey interrupted. He sounded tired.

“Maybe I can’t. Who knows what I can handle.” He nodded at Lip. “Thanks for looking for that stuff up anyway. Even if I didn’t really understand any of it."

“No problem, man,” Lip mumbled. He looked deeply uncomfortably, and Ian purposefully leaned into the door, blocking his way out, forcing him to stew in it for a minute.

They stood in an awkward triangle for a while, Ian taking in the warm, solid feel of Mickey beside him. Mickey’s fingers brushed against the palm of his hand and Ian relaxed slightly.

“My hands don’t work,” Mickey said into the quiet. He held up one hand and flexed.

“What’s wrong with it?” Ian watched it bend, then straighten out. The fingers didn't extend all the way, but it didn’t seem broken, or nonfunctional. He marveled that he’d never noticed it before. He'd felt like he was getting to know Mickey's body better than his own.

“Nerve damage?” Lip guessed, and Mickey looked up in surprise.

“That’s what—yeah man. You are kind of smart.” He sounded grudgingly impressed.

Lip made an obnoxious face, and Ian smacked him on the chest. Mickey smiled a little, looking down. When he spoke, his words were more halting, like he was uncomfortable speaking in front of a crowd, even a crowd of two stuffed inside a tiny bathroom together. 

“They think—my dad and Mandy, and the social worker. They think there might be things wrong with me that…that nobody can see yet.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to something as grim as that, so he just squeezed Mickey’s hand. Lip also seemed at a loss, which for him was significant. 

“I keep getting flashes of things, things that make me freak out.” Mickey looked up at Ian. “Like the other night. My dad said something, and I…I can’t tell if I remember things, or if I’m just…fucking broken.” 

“You’re not broken,” Ian cut in fiercely.

“But your memory might be,” Lip said thoughtfully, forever tone deaf, lost in his own thoughts. Before Ian could argue, Lip shook his head, looking at Mickey in confusion. “Why the fuck aren’t you in therapy, man?” 

Ian couldn’t argue with that. Seeing Mickey so obviously struggling made Ian’s chest throb in sympathy. 

“Terry,” Mickey said, and the single word was enough of an explanation that Lip nodded in immediate acceptance. “But after he saw my hands—I think. Something’s changing. He’s different than he was.” He grimaced. “He’s still an asshole.”

“Well, he’s still Terry,” Lip offered, and they all grinned together at the stupid joke. But before they could go any further Fiona’s holler carried up the stairs, easily infiltrating the intimate confines of their huddle in the bathroom.

“Hey you guys!” she called. “Dinner!” 

Ian sighed, feeling even more drained than when he’d first stepped into the house. He looked at Mickey. “You hungry?”

Mickey gave him a sharp, wolfish grin, gone almost as soon as it flashed across his face. “Always.”

Lip heaved a loud groan and shouldered them both out of the way to leave the bathroom. “You two are weird,” he groused. 

Ignoring Lip, Ian pulled Mickey after him and followed him down the stairs.

 

***

 

Mickey was sitting at the library while Ian finished his shift, trying to figure out what in the hell a bearing rein was. Vicky had been right, Black Beauty was good, and Mickey liked it, but all the horse vernacular was making him grit his teeth. Almost like a horse, he thought to himself with a smirk. 

But some of these _words_. It wasn’t because he was stupid, because he’d already asked Ian what a bearing rein was and Ian had looked at him like he’d been asked to drop everything he was doing and teach Mickey everything he’d missed in algebra, right here, right now. So he just had to imagine what the term meant, and read around it.

As he did so, he felt eyes on him. He stopped reading, just staring at the same sentence as he became aware that Ian had gone still above him where he was ostensibly re-shelving Non-Fiction but more often getting distracted by Mickey. 

“Stop looking at my hands,” Mickey said, curling them self-consciously under the cover of the book in his lap. 

“I’m not—” Ian protested. 

“Get back to work.”

Chastened, Ian began re-shelving again. His movements were still slow though. Mickey had thought he’d seemed tired all afternoon. Ian was busy all the time lately, with extra ROTC practices that butted up directly against his shifts at the library. If Mickey didn’t come and watch him shelve books, he would never see him, and the every thought of _that_ made Mickey go cold.

He had time to read the next sentence in his book before Ian’s shape went still again. 

“Ian,” Mickey said. He peered up and saw Ian frowning down again at Mickey's hands. “I’m not a fucking cripple.” 

Ignoring him, Ian set the remaining stack of books in a spare spot on the shelf and crouched down next to Mickey. He held his palm flat out, like the little girl in the book did when she wanted to feed the horses. “Can I see again?” 

Mickey rolled his eyes. “They haven’t changed since you looked at them an hour ago.”

But Ian just waited, and Mickey sighed in exaggerated annoyance, flopping his hand into Ian’s grasp. Normally he wouldn’t mind any excuse for Ian to touch him, but he didn’t understand this sudden drive to examine his hands. He didn’t know why everyone in his family was so obsessed with them, either. They still worked. What was the point in fixating on what had made them that way? 

Ian’s face looked severe in concentration as he traced the veins on the outside, then the lines on the inside of the Mickey’s palm. Mickey shivered. Ian stopped, looking up at him in concern.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, his heart starting to pound, “just tickles.” 

Nodding seriously, Ian went back to his examination. He squeezed Mickey’s hand into a fist, his big hands covering Mickey’s fist easily. Mickey stared greedily at the contrast in the size of their hands. He liked the obviousness of how much bigger Ian was than him, paired with the knowledge that Ian would willingly go still and submit to whatever Mickey wanted to do. 

He thought about that night in Ian's bedroom often. They hadn’t had the time or really the patience to fuck like that again since that night, but it was constantly on Mickey's mind. Sometimes when he was reading he would get distracted and think of Ian’s panting face, the way his cheeks went bright red with flush as he hung above Mickey, spearing him with his cock but letting Mickey take control, and suddenly Mickey would realize he was calmly reading about horses in Victorian London while his mind was occupied with hot, obscene images of getting fucked, which felt like a really weird thing to be doing. So he had to force himself to focus on the story again.

Now, Ian was still playing with his hand, carefully looking at each finger, bending it, seeing how far it extended.

“It’s fine,” Mickey said, growing tired of being inspected. He tried to tug his hand free, but Ian kept it captive. “I don’t know why everyone’s so fucking worried about my hands all of a sudden, it’s _fine_.”

Ian’s head snapped up sharply. “It’s not _fine_ ,” he gritted out. He held up Mickey’s limp hand like it had committed an unspeakable crime. “This isn’t fine, your hand not working all the way isn’t fucking _fine_.”

Mickey reared back a little at the vehemence in Ian’s voice. Ian rarely raised his voice, and never at Mickey, not anymore. He looked deeply, deeply troubled, and Mickey could only watch, helpless. 

“It’s not fucking _fair_ ,” Ian said. He was still holding Mickey’s hand, stroking absently at the delicate tendons at the base of his skinny wrist. “I hate this, I hate that this happened, it’s fucking— _fuck_ , Mick. How do you deal with it? How aren’t you just angry as shit _all the time_?”

Tentatively, Mickey reached his free hand out to touch Ian’s knee. The other boy was breathing hard, completely overwrought.

“Hey,” Mickey said quietly. “You don’t have to—you didn’t do anything wrong.” He felt helpless, unsure how to comfort Ian, or if Ian even wanted him to. 

“I didn’t even notice your hands weren’t working right,” Ian said bitterly. “I was too fucking busy messing around. I should’ve _noticed_.”

“But nobody noticed,” Mickey said, nonplussed. 

“We should’ve, though. Somebody should’ve noticed.” Ian’s voice was strident, too loud for the quiet aisle they were ensconced in, and Mickey got the feeling they weren’t talking just about his hands anymore.

There was a pointed knock against the metal of the bookshelf at the end of the aisle, and they both looked up, Ian crouching over Mickey protectively, still cradling his hand, Mickey wide-eyed and holding on to Ian’s leg with a clenched, claw-like hand.

“Are those books shelved, Mr. Gallagher?” Janice asked archly, the librarian’s keen eye sweeping over the remaining books in Ian’s cart. 

“They are—well, not totally, completely shelved, not _technically_ ,” Ian evaded, making Mickey roll his eyes, because the kid was the slowest book re-shelver on the planet on a good day, let alone when he was emotionally distracted.

Janice looked ready to reprimand him, but then her eyes caught on Mickey. She never seemed quite as severe to Mickey as Ian complained that his supervisor was. She huffed lightly when Mickey trailed in after Ian for his shifts, complaining about distractions, but her eyes seemed to soften whenever they landed on him curled up inside whatever shelf Ian was restocking, silently struggling through the arcane language of Black Beauty.

That tolerant indulgence appeared to persist as Janice crossed her arms, sighing. “Why don’t you take your break now, Ian?” 

“Sure, Janice,” Ian said, hurrying to his feet. He pulled Mickey up too, and Mickey just had time to tuck his book into the special hiding place on the bottom row before they were headed for the back exit. 

The air was turning from crisp to frigid in a hurry and they huddled together in the alcove at the back of the building that blocked them from the wind. Part of the wall extended out and curved in, also protecting them from being seen from the street or the parking lot.

“Come here,” Ian said, yanking on Mickey’s arm until he was against the wall and Ian could drape himself over him. “You need a thicker coat.”

Mickey wanted to say that he didn’t seem to feel the cold like other people did, but he had a indefinable suspicion that would only make Ian upset like his damaged hands did, even though he wasn’t quite sure why.

It was nice though, standing against Ian, letting him wrap his arms around Mickey and sigh. 

“Sorry I haven’t been around lately,” Ian said. He looked down at his sneakers. He kicked some poor, unsuspecting piece of broken concrete with force.

“It’s okay,” Mickey said easily. And it was. He was standing here now with Ian while he fretted and stood close enough that Mickey could press his face into his shoulder, the echo of his outrage from inside hanging like a protective blanket, and it was enough. 

“Sorry I got so mad in there,” Ian said, his voice lower. Mickey was ready to wave that off too, but Ian went on, sounding distressed. “It’s just—sometimes I can't think about everything that happened to you, isn’t that horrible? It hurts to think about.” His face went stony. “It just makes me want to kill everyone who ever hurt you.”

He looked at Mickey then, his eyes wide and solemn, innocently green. Like he hadn’t just offered to wreak bloody havoc for the sake of Mickey’s wellbeing. Like he wasn’t driving Mickey crazy with his simple, honest attachment, standing out here in the cold, empty library parking lot trying to keep him warm.

But before Mickey could tell him like he’d told Vicky that they didn’t have to focus on it, they could just try and _move on_ , Ian was kissing him. Kissing him with _purpose_ , determinedly, like he was trying to tell Mickey something important.

Ian stepped back so suddenly Mickey's mouth was hanging open as he gasped, watching as Ian dropped to his knees. He put a firm hand on Mickey’s hips. He looked up, questioning. “Is this okay?” He pulled experimentally at Mickey’s zipper, still watching him.

Mickey swallowed, the back of his neck getting almost painfully hot. They’d never done this before. The very thought of it made his mouth go dry. He nodded.

Ian focused on the zipper in earnest, yanking down Mickey’s jeans just enough that he could pull out his cock, then shuffling around to shield him from the wind as best he could. He breathed hotly on Mickey’s stomach, making Mickey shiver, then he sucked Mickey’s hardening length down. 

Mickey hissed at the sudden all-encompassing sensation, his back arching. Ian licked at the tip then suckled down the shaft, the wet sounds ringing in Mickey’s ears, making him light-headed.

He must’ve made some kind of strangled noise because Ian pulled off. “You okay?” he asked, and Mickey made the mistake of looking down and seeing his red, shiny lips, his eyes dilated and watching Mickey avidly. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, nodding, then opened them again, helpless to miss even a second of this.

His hands hovered above Ian’s head as he watched the way Ian bobbed, sucking Mickey’s painfully hard cock down so deep Mickey worried that it would hurt him. Mickey’s hips jerked before he caught himself and forced his body to be still. 

Ian pulled away again, a wet string of saliva connecting the purple-red head of Mickey’s cock to Ian’s lips. “You can move,” Ian said breathlessly. “You won’t—I don’t mind.”

“Jesus christ, Ian,” Mickey muttered, his heart feeling like it was about to gallop out of his chest.

Blindly, Ian grabbed Mickey’s floating hands and put them firmly on the crown of his head. Mickey’s flexed his fingers, noticing now that the movement wasn’t complete and his fingers wouldn't lie flat on Ian's red hair, but he was too distracted by the hot, wet, _perfect_ sensation of Ian’s mouth on him to spare it much thought.

Mickey rocked forward experimentally, but Ian made a frustrated sound, setting both hands on Mickey’s hips to pull him forward more firmly. It felt rough, but Mickey was shocked when Ian moaned, deep in his throat, picking up the pace as he slurped at Mickey’s cock.

He spread his fingers, reaching back to grab tightly at Mickey’s ass. One finger strayed close to his dry hole, and Mickey arched, shoving himself toward Ian, coming on a yowl as the orgasm burst out of him, stretching white-hot and endless, leaving Mickey wrung out and weak in its wake. 

He flopped against the rough brick of the library building. He watched Ian wipe his mouth neatly, putting Mickey back in his pants and zipping him off, every movement careful and tender. He straightened, green eyes unusually dark, and stared at Mickey. Mickey wanted to say thank you, to ask Ian if everything was okay, to tell him that they should just do that all the time, but he was too winded and could only stare back wordlessly. 

Ian stepped impossibly closer, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s entire body. He could feel Ian’s own cock pressing hard to his hip but he didn’t seem too worried about it at the moment, content to hold Mickey tight to his chest. He pressed his face against Mickey's temple, inhaling and exhaling deeply. His throat worked for a moment, like he wanted to say something, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out and gave up, holding Mickey tighter. Mickey let himself go limp in Ian’s hold and drift, his mind a fuzzy, pleasant mush for the moment.

“I think your break’s over,” Mickey said hoarsely. 

Ian laughed croakily, finally pulling back. He brushed a kiss over Mickey’s forehead. “I guess so.”

He held out his hand for Mickey, and Mickey took it, and let Ian lead him back into the library.

 

***

 

Ian felt like he was disappearing from his everyday life. Between ROTC, the library and the stupid extra secret shifts at the Kash N Grab, he could feel himself being stretched too thin. The extra money from the store were decent, but the strain of stiffly working beside Kash, and watching the older man defiantly woo Jaime the delivery boy right in front of him, made Ian feel like he aged ten years at the end of every shift.

He felt too stubborn to quit, though. To let Kash drive him out for the second time, and this time under Ian’s own volition. 

But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst was that he felt like he barely saw Mickey anymore, and it was like a hunger under his own skin. 

He felt frayed at the edges, his reaction times slower than normal. He was tired a lot but more than that, every day he couldn’t see Mickey wound him that much tighter until he started snapping at his siblings, actively argue with Kash at the store, getting distracted at ROTC practice.

Mickey started sitting with him during most of his shifts at the library, but it wasn’t enough. They were hardly ever alone together.

Something had to give, but he wasn’t a good enough anticipatory planner to think what that might be, so he just hung on, getting steadily more desperate. 

Mickey seemed just as intent to be alone together, and with the weather turning cold, the top of the abandoned building wasn’t much of an option anymore. The Gallagher house wasn’t exactly an island of calm and privacy, especially not with Fiona’s new boyfriend around all the time. Ian's blood felt heated to an arousal-thick boil with every stolen grope at the library, or feverish kiss in one of the alleyways by their house, but it wasn't enough. 

That Friday after his shift at the library, they barely made it to the alcove by the parking lot before they were all over each other, making out frantically.

“Fuck,” Ian bit out, his hands wandering to squeeze at Mickey’s ass. Even bony as it was, Mickey had a nice ass, and Ian couldn't keep his hands off it.

Growling, Mickey tried to wrap a leg around Ian’s hips, bringing them tightly together. Ian felt like he was about to come on the spot.

A car pulled out of a spot just outside of the alcove, illuminating them with its headlights as it drove away. Ian startled and jerked away.

“Fuck,” he said again, this time in frustration. He ran his hands through his hair. He looked at Mickey, panting and agitated as well as he slumped against the wall.

“We need to go somewhere,” Ian said raggedly, too lust-stupid to care how desperate he sounded. 

“My house,” Mickey declared. He reached forward to clutch the fabric of Ian’s jacket like it was grounding him. 

“But your dad,” Ian argued, and silently added _and your sister and your brothers,_ fuck, they both had way too big of families for any serious fooling around to conceivably take place on a regular basis. He pined for the summer when they could do everything outside. 

Mickey’s cheeks were red from cold as he shook his head. “No, he’s out on a job. Took Iggy and the rest out of state. They’re gone until tomorrow.” 

“I thought your dad was taking you with on jobs now,” Ian asked idly.

Mickey seemed to shrink. “He…I think he wants…I don’t know. He’s not anymore.”

Ian wanted to ask what had brought about such a shift, but Mickey didn’t look like he wanted to get into it, so Ian let him drop it.

So Terry and the Milkovich brothers were gone. And Mandy was at a party for one of her least-hated friends from school (“Why do you go if you hate all the of them?” “High school politics, baby.”) Ian realized, mentally ticking off another box. 

“You’re sure they’re gone until tomorrow?” Mickey nodded, and while it still felt like a risk, Ian noticed how Mickey’s skin was cold to the touch from lingering outside for so long. And Mickey’s lips were red and chapped from making out, and the way he was clinging to Ian made his brain too foggy with lust to think.

“Okay,” Ian said, caving. “Your house.” 

They stumbled toward their neighborhood, the need to touch warring with the necessity of keeping their hands to themselves once they were on more familiar streets making them both clumsy. 

Even though he knew no one was home, Ian still paused on the threshold to the Milkovich house, peering into the darkened living room.

“Come on,” Mickey whined, pulling him inside. He shed his coat and kicked off his shoes, then started tugging at Ian’s belt and pants. “Ian, come _on_.”

Ian laughed, his nerves forgotten as he wiggled out of his clothes, pausing only to reel Mickey in for another kiss, laughing when Mickey batted him away so he could rid of the rest of his clothes.

Once they were naked, they came together in a clash. Ian got his arms around Mickey but Mickey twisted his body, slamming Ian down onto the couch hard enough to make him gasp.

“Shit, Mickey,” Ian breathed, hopelessly turned on as Mickey straddling him and his eyes ran possessively over Ian's body. 

Mickey lunged forward, tonguing at Ian's lips and slipping into his mouth, tasting his teeth until Ian moaned, squirming. He shifted so he could get a knee up, urging Mickey down to ride against his thigh. He smiled when Mickey bit his lip, hissing, the dazed look on his face drawing out a strangled throb from Ian's cock in reaction.

He brushed his hand down to Mickey’s ass, the pad of his finger dragging over Mickey’s dry hole. Mickey groaned, the sound shockingly loud in the silent house. Ian grinned, pushing at his shoulder.

“Move over, let me get you ready.” He thought he had lube in his backpack, but as he twisted to reach for it, Mickey threw him back on the couch.

Ian glared up at him, and Mickey looked back, unrepentant, sitting up straight and stubborn on Ian’s chest. Ian poked at his belly, making him jerk and huff out of a laugh. 

“Mick, let me— _unnf_ ,” Ian wheezed out, catching an elbow to the sternum as Mickey moved, trying to hold Ian down. Ian laughed, shoving back, and Mickey’s teeth glinted in the shadows of the living room as he smiled sharply down, enjoying the struggle and the fight as they both tried to pin the other. 

They were both laughing, Mickey’s rising high on a moan as Ian wrapped a hand around his cock to jerk him off, when the front door swung open.

“Mick, you home?” Terry’s booming voice swung through the living room. Both Ian and Mickey froze, crouched on the couch just low enough that Terry didn’t seem to be able to see them.

Ian stared at Mickey, who had gone completely still on top of him, staring sightlessly at the arm of the couch as he listened. 

“I left the boys to finish up in Wisconsin,” Terry was saying, coming deeper into the room. “Brought us some Taco Bell, thought maybe we could—" His voice cut off, like he was gritting his teeth. When he spoke again, his voice sounded fraught, but also wobbly, like he was just a little drunk. "Shit, Mickey. We haven’t—I’m sorry. Goddamnit Mickey, where the fuck are you?” 

Abruptly Terry stopped moving. There was a sharp intake of breath, and the sound of teeth coming together in a resounding _click_.

In horrible slow motion, Ian craned his neck to look up into the stunned face of Terry Milkovich looking down at the couch, a bright furious red rapidly making its way up his ruddy neck and face. 

“What in the _fuck_ ,” he said, deathly quiet. Then again, not so quiet this time, his voice rising into a howl, “ _what in the fuck_!”

Terry struck fast like a snake, throwing Mickey off of Ian and landing a solid punch to Ian’s face, his fist so massive it connected all the way from Ian’s cheek to his jaw. 

Ian’s whole body jerked at the force of the blow. He saw white splotches in his vision and dazedly thought he’d never been hit that hard before in his life.

He saw Terry winding up for another hit but then there was a whirl of motion as a small, fast-moving body flung itself onto Terry’s back. It was Mickey, screaming and swearing, the words mostly unintelligible as he scratched at Terry’s back with hands clenched like claws. 

“Shit, get the fuck off,” Terry thundered, smacking at Mickey on his back like an angry bear. 

“Mick, careful—” Ian tried to say, sitting up in alarm at the sight of Mickey hanging onto Terry’s back, his own throbbing face forgotten at the threat of Terry falling on Mickey and crushing him like a bug.

But Ian needn’t have bothered, he realized, watching Mickey shriek, biting and clawing, and the way Terry’s eyes went wide in pure shock.

For a dizzying moment, Ian felt a strange kinship with Terry Milkovich, feeling just as dumbfounded as Mickey's dad looked as they watched from their separate vantage points as Mickey lost his mind, trying to rake the skin off his father’s neck and back with a single-minded intensity Ian had never seen in a human before.

Terry shook at Mickey, trying to dislodge him, apparently focused on getting Mickey off rather than fighting back. With a final mighty shake, he loosened Mickey’s hold and Mickey clattered to the floor. Ian shoved off the couch to go to Mickey immediately, but as soon as he was close Mickey grabbed his arm and yanked him behind him, shielding Ian’s body with his own. He hunkered low on the ground, breathing loudly, teeth bared as he stared Terry down. 

For his part, Terry seemed to have lost his momentum. He appeared mesmerized by Mickey’s oversized, nearly frenzying fury. Ian couldn’t really blame him. It was unnerving.

Then Terry blinked, taking stock of the fact that both Mickey and Ian behind him were still buck naked, which apparently reminded him that Ian and Mickey had been almost fucking when he walked in, and rage quickly filtered back into his eyes. 

“What in the fuck are you—what in the _fuck_ —fucking _faggots_ ,” he spluttered, his meaty arms coming up like battering rams as he grappled to string an entire sentence together, near apoplectic.

He seemed to be barely restraining himself from throwing his entire body weight onto Ian and pummeling him to the ground. The only thing stopping him was the sight of Mickey, crouched low and blocking his way to Ian with his body.

“My son ain’t no _queer_ ,” Terry spat out. He was panting. “My son—he wasn’t no fucking pole-smoking _faggot_ , goddamnit it to _hell_.” He spun around in a tight circle like a trapped animal, chest heaving.

There was the rustle of something heavy and cold coming out of Terry’s coat, and the snick of a safety switching off. 

Ian stared, eyes wide as he tried to see in the dim light. Mickey’s dad was holding a gun. Ian wasn’t as familiar with handguns as he was with automatic weapons in ROTC, but Terry’s was definitely lethal looking, probably some sort of pistol. 

He took a staggering step in Mickey and Ian’s direction again.

But as he moved, Terry’s eyes darted down, and Ian followed his gaze to stare down at Mickey, who was still crouched in front of him, ready to spring. Terry’s gaze landed on Mickey’s hands. Ian could see they were shaking visibly, still clenched tight like claws in front of him.

Terry stumbled to a stop, the aborted movement and the drunken flush on his face nearly making him unbalance. Ian thought he was watching Terry war with some deep instinctive urge, halted only by Mickey as he stooped over, panicked and ready to fight, seemingly to the death.

“Who in the _fuck_ —Mickey. Goddamnit, Mick, what in the _hell_.” His words were still disjointed, but the volume fell sharply, until he was muttering to himself.

A stripe of twilight coming through the window bent off the gun, and Terry looked down at it with an expression of quaint surprise, like he couldn’t remember why it was there.

Ian’s entire body tensed. He had a fleeting thought that he wished there was some way he could stop Terry from hurting Mickey too, after he inevitably shot Ian to death. 

The moment spun out, stretching silently, all three of them staring at each other.

Slowly, so slowly Ian barely noticed at first, Terry put the gun back in his coat. He was staring at Mickey like he was seeing a stranger. Ian had the fleeting thought that in a parallel universe somewhere Terry Milkovich would probably already be raining down fury on them both like a wrathful god. 

Now, though, faced with his son standing cornered, panting and and holding his hands like claws and bearing his teeth in terror, Terry's shoulders hunched, defeated

The door slammed shut behind Terry as he stalked back out of the door, the silence ringing behind him.

Ian’s body went loose. He locked his knees, struggling to stay upright. In front of him, Mickey relaxed by slower degrees as he straightened up somewhat from his crouch.

He turned to Ian, his pupils so dilated his eyes were black pools of ink. His face wasn’t curled into a furious, defensive snarl anymore. He looked like Mickey again, but very far away. Without thinking, Ian grabbed his hands. They were still clenched into two hooks. Ian had to massage them for a moment until they went slack, falling limp in Ian’s hold.

“Are you,” Ian said, then stopped to swallow because his voice was shaking, “you okay?”

Mickey didn’t answer. He brought a hand up to touch Ian’s face where he was sure a bruise was swelling up. Ian shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He laughed once, hysterically. “Fuck. We’re fine. How are we fine? That was—I thought we were dead.”

Mickey didn’t answer. He stepped around Ian to the opposite wall, still naked, and put his back to it. He slid against it until he was sitting sprawled on the floor, staring ahead. Not bothering with clothes either, Ian sat beside him, letting his leg flop over to touch Mickey’s.

They sat in astounded silence. The bag of Taco Bell sat on the coffee table where it had been forgotten by Terry, slowly growing cold. Ian had the hysterical urge to laugh at the absurdity. Mickey didn’t speak or move, or try to touch Ian further than the contact of their legs. 

When Mickey didn’t speak for long stretch, long enough that Ian began to feel nervous, he wondered if Mickey blamed him for what had happened. It was mostly his fault after all, he should’ve been more careful, he should’ve never agreed to come to the Milkovich house to fool around.

Maybe Mickey wanted Ian to fuck off, after all the trouble he’d caused. He didn’t want to leave him in the spooky, shadowy Milkovich house by himself, but he didn’t want to force Mickey to put up with him if he just wanted to be alone either. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Ian asked. His voice was strained. 

Immediately, Mickey’s hand darted out to squeeze his knee tight. “No,” Mickey said. He looked at Ian, eyes wide and pleading, and Ian’s chest seized with concern. “Don’t leave.”

Ian wrapped his hand around Mickey’s and squeezed back. “Okay,” he said. He tilted his head to rest on Mickey’s, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I won’t.” He tried to stifle the reflexive _won’t leave you ever_ that echoed in his head, but he wasn’t very successful. 

After another long stretch of silence where Ian thought Mickey might’ve fallen asleep, naked and exhausted and slumped against him, Mickey spoke up, startling Ian so that he jumped a little. 

“I want to know,” Mickey said. His voice was thing, but he sounded determined regardless.

“Know what?” Ian asked, whispering in the darkness.

“I want to know,” Mickey said, and stopped. He closed his eyes. “I want to know what happened to me.”

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for all your support. This story has not always been the easiest the write for me, mostly because the subject matter is a little draining emotionally. But it makes it so rewarding that all of you guys are so willing to give this story a chance. So thank you so, so much. :)
> 
> Once again, serious thanks also to my betas: [lvjm87](http://lvjm87.tumblr.com/) and [dombirds](http://dombirds.tumblr.com/). You dudes rule. :)
> 
> Come hang out on [Tumblr](http://ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com/), yall.


	7. Chapter 7

***

**November**

*******

 

Mickey didn’t think he would’ve been able to fall asleep if Ian hadn’t stayed the night. The warm denseness of curled beneath him was the only thing that calmed him enough after the turmoil of the evening to eventually close his eyes and sleep.

He dreamt of horses, and gardens, and horses swimming in an underwater garden. There was some kind of dark, malevolent danger in the underwater horse garden, but Mickey never saw it, he just knew it was there, all night, making his sleep fitful.

The shrill noise of Ian’s cell phone alarm made Mickey jerk awake the next morning. It was a horrible sound. In front of him, Ian barely shifted. He watched him snuffle into the pillow, arch his back marginally so he pressed more firmly into Mickey behind him, and then go still again. 

“How,” Mickey muttered, his head ringing from the alarm. Ian snored softly in response. 

He clambered over Ian as gently as he could, wiggling his right arm free from Ian’s body so he could vault free onto the floor, kicking around blearily for the freaking phone to shut off the freaking alarm. 

“Where are you,” Mickey grumbled, kicking over Ian’s pants. “You _fucker_.”

The phone eventually revealed itself in the pocket of Ian’s jeans, but when Mickey pulled it out and held it in his hands, the alarm immeasurably louder now that it was free of muffling denim, Mickey just looked at it, completely stumped on how to silence it.

“Quiet,” he told it. He pawed at the locked screen like a monkey to no avail. “What do you _want_.”

There was a snort from behind him, and Mickey turned to see Ian propped up on an elbow, watching him struggle with the phone with barely concealed glee.

“How’s it going over there, big guy?” Ian asked, his voice husky from sleep.

Mickey scowled at him and stomped back to the bed, shoving the phone into Ian’s face. “How do _sleep_ through that?”

“Years of practice,” Ian said. He took the phone and easily silenced it, then let his head fall back against the pillow. He sighed, staring up at the ceiling. He turned his head to look at Mickey with careful concern. “How you doing today, man?”

Mickey shrugged. He knew Ian was worried about him. He thought Ian might even be a little bit afraid of him, after watching him fight his dad last night. He didn’t know how to explain how quiet his brain had been during that entire encounter. How it felt like all the usual noise and uncertainty that crowded his thoughts fell away, and all he had to focus on was protecting Ian, on fighting back, and for that stretch of time, even through the violence, he felt serenely, uncomplicatedly perfect. 

Instead, he looked at his feet. “I’m fine.” 

Ian nodded, sitting up in bed. He stretched as Mickey drank in the sight hungrily, then got up and padded over. He took Mickey’s face in both of his big hands, holding Mickey's cheeks and tilting his head back just enough that Ian could look him in the face. Mickey grabbed his forearms but didn’t fight the grip. Instead he just hung there, letting Ian examine him.

“Last night was pretty fucked up,” Ian said conversationally. His eyes darted across Mickey’s face, settling on his nose, his lips, back up to his eyes. It was the longest stretch of uninterrupted eye contact Mickey could remember having, and yet he couldn’t look away, enthralled by the flecks of amber around the green of Ian’s eyes, standing slack in Ian’s grip until Ian decided to let him free.

Mickey swallowed, aware of how hard his heart was beating. Ian could probably feel it where his palms touched his neck. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry it happened.” Ian raised his eyebrows, like he was trying to tell Mickey something important. Mickey wasn’t sure what that something was. It felt too intense, Ian’s worry for him, and he felt guilty that Ian was so deeply enmeshed in Mickey’s macabre life. 

“Your breath smells,” Mickey murmured instead, pulling his face away from Ian’s grasp so he could look at the ground.

Ian kissed him on the nose, making Mickey startle. “ _You_ smell.” He laughed and released Mickey, stepping around the room to gather his clothes. Mickey watched him pull on his pants and shirt, patting his pockets for his wallet. He stooped to grab his backpack and straightened, hesitating in the doorway. 

“I’ve got school,” he said, sounding apologetic. “I’d skip, but I have a dumb presentation in English. And then ROTC after, so I won’t be home til later.” He looked away, and Mickey was hit with the strangest, and yet most certain, sensation that Ian was lying to him. Mickey paused, wondering why he’d even think that, what Ian could possibly be lying about. He shook it off as Ian smiled at him. “You can go hang out at my house, if you want. Since we already know you can break in on your own." 

It was on the tip of Mickey’s tongue to ask Ian to stay. He didn’t want to be alone all day. He had a fleeting wish that he was going to school, too. That he could be part of the mundane task of getting ready, walking to class, complaining about homework.

“I’ll see you after school,” Mickey said. He sounded gruff, feeling clingy but fighting it. 

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, and with one last squeeze to Mickey’s shoulder, he turned to leave. Mickey sat on his bed, yanking the sheets up around his shoulder as Ian walked away. 

As Ian hurried out of the Milkovich house, Mandy returned from wherever she’d stayed after the party the night before, oblivious to the residual tension, watching Ian jog past with tired eyes. 

“Hi Ian,” she said as he waved and sped past, “Bye Ian.” She shook her head, standing in the doorway to Mickey’s room. She looked at him, where he sat with his knees curled to his chest, probably projecting his misery like a foghorn. 

“What’s with you?” she asked. When Mickey didn’t answer, and instead curled himself tighter in his blanket cocoon, Mandy frowned. “Something feels different.”

Mickey looked at her over the edge of the blanket by his chin, sourly.

Mandy spun in a slow circle, looking down the hallway, at the other doorways, the living room, then back to Mickey. She snapped her fingers. “Dad. Where is Dad?”

Mickey shrugged and turned so he was staring at the wall. He never wanted to think of Terry again, or least not for the rest of the morning, and Mandy was _ruining_ it. He waited tensely for her to somehow managed to connect the dots and realize what had happened the night before, even though there was no reason for her to anticipate a shitstorm of that magnitude.

But then Mandy just nodded. “Oh wait, he had that job,” she said evenly. She didn’t leave the doorway though, hesitating as she looked at Mickey’s back. “You hungry?” 

“You have school,” Mickey muttered. Everyone had school. Ian had school, Mandy had school, every kid his age had school, except for him. It sucked.

“Eh, I can skip first period probably. It’s just math. When the hell am I ever going to use that?” Mandy’s voice went lower, crafty. “I’ll make French toast.” 

The urge to mope the morning away in bed, most likely wallowing in what even he could identify as the nonsensical guilt that he’d somehow driven his dad out of his own house, was strong. He was hungry, though. And Mandy made damn good French toast. He got out of bed.

As they ate breakfast, Mandy watched Mickey, and he knew that she could tell something had happened, like a ship captain sensing the change in the weather hovering above the sea. She stayed silent, though, humming a little as she ate. 

They were finishing up when there was a knock on the front screen door. Vickey’s voice traveled through the living room. “Hello? Anybody home?” Mickey heard her walking inside and heading toward the kitchen, and then she was in the doorway, staring at Mandy and Mickey at the kitchen table. She put a hand on her hip. “Shouldn’t you be at school, Mandy?” she asked.

“Free period,” Mandy lied blithely, getting up to collect hers and Mickey’s plates and deposit them in the sink.

Vicky rolled her eyes at that, but she seemed focused on Mickey. Mickey kept his eyes on the table. She looked just as suspicious as Mandy. He wanted to know how all these women always knew when he was upset. They were almost as perceptive about it as Ian, like they were wearing special sensors under their clothes.

“What’s going on here?” she finally asked, frowning. “Are you alright?” She took a step toward Mickey. “Where’s your dad at?” 

“He’s getting drunk at the bar down the street,” Mandy volunteered automatically, saving Mickey from having to scramble for an excuse. She grabbed her backpack from where she’d thrown it by the sink then crossed her arms, watching Vicky warily.

Vicky still looked unsure. “Oh.” She pulled out a folder from her bag and held it up uncertainly. “Well, I needed to talk with him. I had a whole treatment plan worked up, and it needs the signature of a guardian—shit.” It was the first time Mickey had ever heard the social worker swear, and it made him grin in surprise. She seemed inordinately ruffled, and Mickey felt a tendril of affection unfurl itself unexpectedly. 

He looked at Vicky's folder with interest. He liked the sound of the words “treatment plan.” They sounded so sleek. Like it could solve anything. 

Vicky sat down at the table and faced Mickey. She folded her hands over the mysterious treatment plan. “Look,” she said. “I’m kind of in a bind here. I’ve been trying to call your dad, and he hasn’t been answering, and now he’s gone, and protocol says I should write this up, but all of that is just going to set this whole process back for you. And I have some good news.” A broad smile worked its way across her face. “I found you a tutor.”

“How is that good news?” Mandy asked from the doorway. She sounded mystified. “Now he’s just going to be homeschooled like some Mormon?”

Vicky kept her eyes on Mickey. “Well, home schooling is one option. But this tutor works primarily after hours at the high school. His office is on campus. If you wanted…we could have your sessions there.” 

Mickey went blank with shock. Luckily, Vicky seemed to be accurately interpreting that blankness as pleasure rather than refusal. The whole idea felt like some strange fantasy he’d yearned into being through sheer force of will. He felt nervous to move too sharply and upset this fragile new reality. 

“I thought you’d like that,” Vicky said, a little smugly. She flipped to a page in the folder, looking slightly more apprehensive. “That’s why I led with that. Thought I’d soften the blow.” Her face grim, she looked back at Mickey. “Your therapy sessions are scheduled to begin, too.” 

Mickey nodded. “Good.” He saw both Mandy and Vicky freeze. They both seemed to be expecting some kind of nuclear fallout, not Mickey delicately raising one shoulder in response. “What?”

Mandy took a step closer, her steps hesitant. “This is…you sure this is something you want?” 

He considered the question. After last night, he could no longer ignore the deep, loitering misgiving that no matter how much he wanted to forget anything that had happened before, it wouldn’t release him from its grasp so easily. He thought of Terry, and the strange, mincing way he handled Mickey, and the general fear with which most everyone around him dealt with the idea of what had happened to him while he was away. He needed to know, and he needed someone to help him figure out how to remember.

He didn’t know how to articulate all of these thoughts to the women in front of him. Instead, he fisted his hands and nodded. 

“I think that’s a really good attitude,” Vicky said quietly.

To Mickey’s surprise, he felt a blush work its way up his neck at the praise. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling to visibly, but he was pretty sure Vicky saw anyway. 

“Well, you want to go meet your tutor? He said he’d be around most mornings this week, but I can give him a call on the way over.” Vicky seemed determined to maintain whatever momentum they’d gained that morning, and turned to Mandy expectantly. “I can give you both a ride over, if you want.”

Mandy grumbled, but Vicky got them both up and moving, telling Mickey to gather up the books he was reading to take with. At the entrance to the high school, Mandy nudged Mickey with her shoulder. 

“Welcome to hell, kid,” she said on a groan, and then broke into a cackle when Mickey arched an unimpressed eyebrow at her. She went to class while Vicky signed herself and Mickey in, and then before Mickey could really process it, he was on his way to meet his tutor.

The events of the night before felt lifetimes away. Excitement worked its way almost painfully through Mickey’s bones as they walked.

The hallways were empty for the most part, which he appreciated. He felt like a shadow ghosting his way along the brightly lit tile, Vicky walking with purpose beside him and holding half of the stack of books he’d brought with. 

His tutor was in the teacher’s lounge, eating a sandwich and spilling jelly on his shirt. He looked up when the door opened, and stood up in surprise so fast his chair fell over. 

“Oh!” He scrambled to pull his chair up, then turned back to Mickey and Vicky. “Oh, hey!” He was young, and he had long arms and legs like a spider, and he ate up the distance across the room in three strides. “You must be Mickey!” He held out his hand as he strode their way and Mickey could either take it or let it stab him in the sternum, so he ended up shaking the tutor’s hand in self defense. 

“Hi,” the tutor said, grinning widely. His hand engulfed Mickey’s, and Mickey could only stare up at him, non-plussed. “I’m Ben.” Ben the tutor frowned. “Mr. Whiteman?” He looked at Vicky for assistance, and she shrugged.

“He can call you whatever you want him to,” she said with an indulgent smile. 

Ben shrugged. “I think just Ben then?” He looked at Mickey imploringly, waiting for some kind of confirmation. “Unless you want to call me something else?” 

“Are you asking me?” Mickey asked skeptically. Something about Ben’s unpracticed dishevelment made Mickey forget to be nervous. This guy was a mess.

With a laugh, Ben ran a hand over his hair, making it stick up in back. “You’re right, I’m being weird. Sorry, I usually don’t…” He trailed off as his eyes caught on the spines of the books Mickey was clutching to his chest. “Hey, you’re reading Black Beauty?” 

Mickey nodded cautiously, and flinched only slightly when Ben reached forward to take it from his arms enthusiastically.

“Hey, that’s great!” Everything Ben said seemed to end with an enthusiastic exclamation mark. “Vicky said you’d been reading a lot, but wow, Black Beauty is a much higher reading level than I was expecting! You must be pretty smart!”

That felt like a trap. Mickey tilted his head to the side as he watched Ben enthuse over the book. 

“Oh man, I can’t wait to talk to you about this and hear what you think,” Ben said. Mickey narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out if Ben was teasing, but his face was uncomplicated as he looked back up at Mickey. He startled again, making both Mickey and Vicky jump this time, and gestured wildly for the desk. “My manners! Come on, sit. Both of you go ahead, I can’t wait to get started!”

Mickey looked to Vicky for confirmation that this guy was for real. A corner of Vicky’s mouth curled up, and Mickey huffed, taking that as approval, and followed Ben to the circular table in the corner, leaving his sandwich forgotten on the table in the middle of the room.

“I thought I’d stick around for this first session? See how things go?” Vicky directed her question to Mickey, and Mickey tried not to show his immediate relief. Ben seemed harmless, but everything in Mickey shied away from trusting people too quickly now. Vicky would make a suitable buffer.

“That’d be great!” Ben said happily, smiling even wider at Vicky. “I mean, if you want. That’d be great.” Micky watched Ben’s ears go red and rolled his eyes, feeling strangely magnanimous as he watched Ben pull out a stack of papers. _This guy_. 

Mickey didn’t need to talk much at first as Ben ran through his list of ideas for tutoring. A lot of it seemed to revolve around a reading list. Mickey’s stomach felt floaty with excitement at the list of titles Ben read through on his list. He couldn’t quite believe he was going to get the chance to read _all_ of them.

The goal was to establish where Mickey was with his math and reading, Ben explained, and then make a plan to bring him to a level where he could reintegrate into a classroom again. 

“That might take a while,” Ben stopped his spiel to assure Mickey breezily, “but that’s not a big deal. We’re not on a deadline here. If we spend the rest of the semester just reading together and talking about books, that’d be fine with me.”

Then Ben looked quickly over at Vicky like he just remembered a representative of the city was there too. He rushed to add, “Not that progress isn’t important! We will definitely be charting your progress! Milestones, development, curriculum…meetings.” Mickey was pretty sure Ben was just listing arbitrary school-related words at this point, and was relieved when Vicky put him out of his misery. 

She seemed to be trying not to smile as Ben fumbled his words. “Mickey’s case is of special interest to my department, and the situation at home is somewhat…volatile.” she said, talking over Ben until he quieted. She put a hand on the table. Mickey studied it, the way the simple gold ring on one finger glinted in the overhead light of the lounge. She seemed so confident. Mickey wondered what that was like. “But he’s also pretty eager to get out of the house for a few hours a day. I think he’ll be able to show you what he needs pretty easily.” 

Ben nodded. He pushed Mickey’s stack of books to the side so he could observe Mickey more easily. “I’m getting that feeling.” For once, his expressive face sobered. Mickey couldn’t quite look him in the eye, Ben still too much of a stranger for that kind of intimacy, so instead he focused on Ben’s collarbone. He could still see Ben’s eyes, the light in them gone frank. “What do you think, Mickey? You ready?”

Mickey traced the shape of the embossed title on Black Beauty. He took a deep breath, and looked up at Ben’s collarbone, the closest he could get to eye contact this soon after meeting someone.

“I’m ready,” he said. He was pleased that his voice barely shook at all.

 

***

 

Ian was tired. He wanted to go home and sleep for a million years. Alternatively, he wanted to go find Mickey and let him curl up around Ian’s back and _then_ sleep for a million years. 

Instead, he started packing up his ROTC gear into his backpack, yawning as he zipped it all up. The last thing he wanted was to go to work, but felt like he was deep, deep in this strange, stubborn hole he'd created, lying to his family and Mickey about longer ROTC practices and extra shifts at the library, and it felt like more work to sort it out than to just glumly follow this secretive new path he'd created.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and tensed instinctively as he recognized the firm pressure. 

“Nice job today, Gallagher,” Rogers intoned at his back.

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Ian said, trying to keep his voice from going too high. The gym of the high school was mostly clearing out and he wanted to get out of there before it was just him and Rogers, alone. He stood, the movement putting some distance between them. He pasted a bright smile on his face. “Well, have to get to work! See you Thursday.” 

Rogers nodded, his face impassive. That was the worst part, that no matter how weird the drill sargeant was, his face never showed a thing. It made Ian want to be twice as expressive just to make up the deficit.

“You have a good afternoon,” Rogers said, and watched Ian jog out of the gymnasium.

Ian didn’t slow to a walk until he was clear into the hallway. He adjusted his backpack on his shoulders and checked his phone. Shit, he was running late. He’d been hoping to swing by the Milkovich house and see Mickey, but he wasn’t going to have the time now.

It had been nearly two weeks since Terry had found them naked in the Milkovich living room. Mickey's dad had effectively disappeared since then, but Ian was officially spooked nonetheless. He couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder, sure he was living on borrowed time, just waiting for for Mickey’s dad to reappear and finish him off.

Mickey, however, seemed strangely zen about it all. Whenever Ian brought it up, Mickey would just shrug. Ian wondered if maybe Terry didn’t seem like that big of a threat after everything Mickey had been through. If anything, Ian figured Mickey could have some serious perspective when he wanted to.

Ian turned the corner by the teacher’s lounge, pondering, when he heard a familiar voice.

“But she destroyed the entire notebook in the fireplace. Why would Jo ever forgive her for that?”

Ian stopped mid-stride, balancing on the ball of his left foot as he strained his ears, listening.

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

And that’s when Ian knew for sure—that same gruff, flat voice. He knew that voice. Mickey was here. Why was Mickey here? He retraced his steps backward, and stopped outside the teacher’s lounge. Inside, Mickey was sitting so his profile was visible to Ian. Beside him, a tall, excitable-looking man was flipping through his book. Ian thought he recognized him as a classroom aide of some kind, but he wasn’t sure.

He needed to book it if he was going to make it to the Kash N Grab on time for his afternoon shift, but he was too surprised to see Mickey at school to do anything but stand and stare.

“It might not be fair, but why would Jo forgive her in the end? What was Amy’s motivation?” The tall man gestured at the book, and Mickey frowned in thought.

“I don’t know,” he said, but he didn’t sound completely sure. Ian stayed silent, watching in fascination. 

The tall man tried a different tact. “Why do you think Amy is so mad at Jo, though?” he asked pointedly.

“Because Amy’s a little bitch,” Mickey said gruffly, making the tall man laugh.

“Well, yeah. I don’t think any literature scholars who have read Little Women would argue with you there. But if _you_ were Amy, why would you be mad at your sister?” The taller man snapped his fingers in inspiration. “You said you have a sister, right?”

Mickey nodded. “Mandy.”

“Is she ever bossy?”

“She’s my sister,” Mickey said, looking at the man like that was stupid fucking question, and the man laughed again.

“Fair enough.” He turned the book in front of them to a previous page, pointing out a specific line. “So if you were Amy, and your sister Mandy was Jo, and Jo was telling you to do something—why was Amy mad?”

Mickey bit his lip, then offered, haltingly, “Because Jo was trying to control her. Because she was treating Amy like a little kid, and Amy doesn’t feel like a little kid.”

The tall man looked ready to burst with pride. “Yes! Exactly! That is exactly right.” He patted the table, looking like he wanted nothing more than to slap Mickey on the back but was resisting only barely. Ian smiled to himself when he saw the tiny curve of Mickey's mouth, like he was proud of himself but didn't want to show it.

Meanwhile, the tall man was working himself into some kind of academic frenzy.

“That’s what’s so great about literature!” The man gestured broadly with his hands as he spoke, and Mickey watched warily, leaning back slightly as the gestures got wilder. “You can read these stories, and even though they never happened to you, or they happened over a hundred years ago to a bunch of sisters in New England, but you can _imagine_ what it’s like to be them. You can put yourself in their _shoes_.”

Mickey looked at the man, his eyebrows raised high enough that even Ian could see them in profile. “I get it. Reading is magic. You need to cool it.”

Ian snickered, and both Mickey and the man who was freaking out about the joys of reading whirled around to stare at him.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian said, waving uncomfortably. He felt like he was interrupting something, or at the very least, intruding. Mickey looked completely surprised to see him, and Ian hunched his shoulders guiltily. “Um, I was just—I heard your voice, and I didn’t—what are you doing here?”

“Tutoring,” Mickey grunted out. He was blushing, and even though he was now studiously examining the page of the book in front of him, Ian could still see the color racing up his neck and cheeks.

Ian had no idea Mickey was even considering tutoring. He wondered how long it had been going on, and why Mickey hadn’t told him when they’d been hanging out the day before, or earlier in the week, or any time, really. Ian realized he’d been busier lately, with the two jobs and ROTC and school, but he was starting to feel like he was seriously missing things, that his own frenetic schedule was obscuring things about Mickey from view, and that bothered him. 

“I’m Ben,” the man said sunnily, oblivious to any discomfort as silence fell while Ian stared at Mickey, and Mickey at his book. “Did you two—are you a friend of Mickey’s?”

“That’s Ian,” Mickey said before Ian could respond, and Ben’s smile turned into more of a knowing grin.

“Oh, that’s _Ian_ ,” he said, tapping the book in Mickey’s hands in what looked like a substitute for an actual elbow to the ribs. Mickey shoved the book back at Ben, and Ben pushed it again, and there was a moment of almost sibling-like silent bickering before Ben coughed and stood up. “Well, I need a coffee break anyway. Mickey, we’ll pick back up in ten.”

Mickey stood up and went out into the hall with Ian, and Ian led them to an alcove at the end near a boys’ bathroom. They looked at each other, a foot of space between them. It was so strange seeing Mickey out of context, without the familiar backdrop of the Milkovich house or the Gallagher kitchen or the abandoned building behind him. It made Ian feel awkward, hence the weird compulsion to leave room for Jesus between them.

“So. Hey.” Ian laughed, sounding like an incredible dork even to his own ears.

Apparently Mickey thought so too. He rolled his eyes and leaned up on his tiptoes to kiss Ian on the cheek. Ian made a weird choked sound in his throat, completely caught off guard. Some distant part of his brain noted this was the first time he’d been kissed by anyone on school grounds who wasn’t Mandy. 

“Hey, loser,” Mickey said, smirking to himself as Ian opened and closed his mouth.

“I was just—I had ROTC,” Ian said, stupidly, feeling stupid, unable to think of how to make the stupid feeling go away.

Mickey nodded. “I saw you.” Then he cringed. “I mean. I wasn’t trying to spy on you or anything, it was just. Vicky dropped me off, and I was a little early, and I walked by the gym.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t trying to be weird.”

Ian, who must’ve been been standing in the doorway like some mouth breather watching Mickey read Little Women with his tutor for a good ten minutes before he made his presence known, did not feel like he was in a moral place to judge. He looked quickly up the hall to make sure they were alone, and grabbed hold of Mickey’s elbow. 

“It’s okay,” he said, taking a step closer. The pull to touch, to be as close to Mickey’s body as he could, was nearly impossible to ignore. “You can spy on me like a weirdo whenever you want.”

Mickey kicked Ian’s foot, scowling. “You’re such a brat.”

Ian smiled, nuzzling his forehead against Mickey’s for a moment before stepping back, remembering where they were. “So. Tutoring.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it from you,” Mickey said in a rush. “I wasn’t sure—it just started, and I didn’t know if I was going to be any good at it yet—" 

“Any good at it?” Ian crossed his arms over his chest, feeling things start to settle into normality again. Teasing Mickey was what he was good at. It was where he _lived_ , most of the time. “Come on, you nerd. You get to sit around with that dude in there and talk about books. This is your _wheelhouse_. I’m sure you’re killing it.” 

Mickey kicked Ian’s foot again. “It’s scary.” He looked up the hallway, biting his lip. “Vicky signed me up, and at first I was really excited, but then there’s all this stuff I don’t _know_. Even with books. There’s books Ben talks about that I’ve never heard of. I could spend the rest of my life reading books and I’d never get to the end of it.”

Leaning his hip against the wall, Ian nodded. He could see that being overwhelming. “That’s probably true for everybody, though.” _Not just poor kids like you who had half their childhoods stolen away_ , Ian added silently, wanting to personally rub at the lines of tension between Mickey’s eyebrows until his face was smooth and worry-free. 

“Maybe,” Mickey allowed, although he still seemed troubled. He stared at Ian’s shoulder for a moment, and then, “Do you think…maybe some other time, I could watch you at ROTC again?”

“You’d want to?” Ian felt flattered at the very idea, and also a little proud, imagining Mickey admiring his drill skills from afar. ROTC was the one thing Ian knew he was unequivocally _good_ at, no question, even better than Lip probably.

“It looks cool,” Mickey said

Ian nodded, because while Rogers was seriously harshing his mellow, ROTC _was_ cool. And having someone watching him drill would be even cooler. “It is. I want to be an officer, some day.”

His own family didn’t even watch him drill, Fiona was always too busy and Lip was so firmly anti-Army that Ian would never think to ask. Some of the kids on the squad had friends who sat and watched on open drill days, and a few guys’ girlfriends watched on the weekend. Ian felt a thrill thinking of having someone in the stands watching him, too.

He smiled. “That'd be awesome. And then we could maybe get McDonalds after or something.” He feigned a thoughtful expression. “I know this total weirdo who is like, _in love_ with French fries. Was that you? Or was that Mandy? I can’t remember.” 

Mickey jabbed him in the ribs lightly and Ian laughed, dancing out of his reach. 

“You shouldn’t be making fun of me if you want me to go on your stupid date,” Mickey muttered, doing his best to scowl even though even Ian could see his cheeks were tight as he held back his smile.

“Maybe I don’t want to date you,” Ian teased, lying through his fucking teeth.

Which Mickey seemed to sense just as easily as Ian did. “Liar,” he said confidently, so confidently that Ian couldn’t help but laugh again.

He stepped closer, unable to stay away for long. “Will I see you later?” The thought of leaving Mickey and going to the dreary Kash N Grab felt like a terrible punishment from an unjust universe, but Ian knew the promise of hanging with Mickey later would make it all go faster.

Before Mickey could answer, they were interrupted by a holler from down the hall. 

“Hey Mickey!” Ben called. Both Ian and Mickey swiveled to look. The tutor was leaning his lanky frame against the doorway, watching them with a grin. “Break’s over. Let’s get back to what those little women are up to.” 

“You want to come over for dinner?” Ian blurted out, before Mickey could walk away. “Fiona’s been asking about you.” That was an understatement. Fiona had been fretting almost obsessively about Mickey’s weight, whether Mickey was getting enough food at his own house, if Mandy was following a diet with a high enough fat content.

Ian was a little embarrassed to admit that he was just as obsessed as Fiona, and the thought of watching Mickey eat dinner with him and his siblings made a sense of relief sweep through his whole body. 

Mickey bit his lip, then asked, “Can Mandy come?” 

Ian rolled his eyes. “Of course Mandy can come. I’ll text her now.” He nudged Mickey in the direction of the teacher’s lounge. “Now go _learn_ something. Tell the little women I said what’s up.”

Walking backward, Mickey gave Ian both middle fingers, and Ian watched him go, feeling lighter and more awake than he’d felt all day.

When Ian finally made it to the store, he was ten minutes late. Linda shook her head at him, and Kash gave him a worried frown that Ian knew he was playing up for effect, the asshole.

“You seem distracted,” Kash said at his shoulder after Linda left in a huff.

Ian thought of Mickey, and the concentration on his face as he earnestly discussed character motivations of a bunch of fictional sisters with his tutor. He smiled to himself, making Kash frown deeper.

“I am,” Ian said. He didn’t look to see Kash’s reaction. He’d said it mostly to himself anyway.

 

***

 

An almost eerie calm had descended upon the Milkovich house. With Terry absconded to parts unknown, and Mickey’s brothers strangely absent for those weeks as well, Mickey and Mandy began settling, however tentatively, into the serenity. 

Vicky became somewhat of a fixture while Terry as gone, even more than before. At first she personally escorted Mickey to tutoring at first, and then began taking him to therapy as well. Mickey couldn’t tell if that was normal for a social worker to do. He didn't ask, and Vicky continued to do it.

And while at first Mickey thought Vicky blindly accepted Mandy’s hasty excuses about Terry's whereabouts (“He’s at the bar.” “He’s in the suburbs for work.” “He’s visiting my grandmother in Peoria.”), he began to suspect she was keeping an eye on them in her own way. He got the feeling she was breaking the rules in some way, by tacitly keeping their secret that their father had disappeared, but Mickey didn’t know the rules and ways of social work to figure out how, exactly. Or why Vicky was doing it in the first place.

Or maybe Vicky was honestly too distracted by Mickey’s suddenly busy schedule to notice. Mickey felt a little overwhelmed by the sudden uptick in activity himself, between tutoring and therapy.

Mickey liked tutoring immediately, and almost against his will, Mickey liked Ben too. He liked Ben a lot. He liked spending hours a week talking about books, and less so, completing the occasional math and science worksheet that even Ben seemed to resent. All Ben really seemed to want to do was pile more books on Mickey’s plate, and Mickey couldn’t help but crave the distraction from the sudden silence at home. 

Therapy was less of a smooth transition. Mickey was doggedly committed to trying to remember. In a nebulous, uncertain way, he knew that therapy was the key to doing that. But the actual act of therapy was fucking _exhausting_ , and he was kind of regretting agreeing to it in the first place. Even if he didn’t mind the therapist himself.

Dr. Tran’s office was in a shabby office park near Mickey’s neighborhood. His office was in between a veterinarian's and an acupuncturist's, and the whole building always smelled like candles and scared animal, which was vaguely unsettling.

The first day, Vicky walked him inside and checked him in, and Mickey found himself waiting in silent dread for the moment Vicky would turn around and leave him to his fate. He didn’t know when he’d become so dependent on Vicky, but her stubborn intrusion into Mickey’s life over the last few weeks had made him turn to her first in situations like these, and cling when he was feeling unsure. 

She must’ve caught the distress on his face after she handed in the preliminary paperwork. “Settle down,” she said gently. “I’ll wait with you.” She sat beside Mickey and knocked him gently with her knee. “We’re early. Why don’t you read for a bit, take your mind off things?”

Mickey took out Peter Pan and set it on his lap. He liked this book so far because there were a lot more illustrations than most of the books with chapters he’d been reading, but he was a little suspicious that Ben had put it on the reading list because the language was easier, crafted to be read aloud to children before bed, and Mickey resented that Ben was making allowances for him.

That resentment warred with Mickey's genuine interest in the book, however. Mickey loved reading about Peter Pan. 

By the time he could force himself to focus over his nerves to get through a few sentences, the receptionist was calling his name.

Vicky took his book from him. “Okay. I can’t go in with you this time,” she said, and before Mickey could protest, she smiled. “It’s okay. I know Dr. Tran. I think you’ll like him.” She nodded toward the door to the office. “Get in there, tiger.”

She chuckled when Mickey rolled his eyes at the nickname, even as he realized Vicky had momentarily distracted him from his nerves with his own disdain. Sighing, Mickey followed the receptionist inside.

The therapist immediately reminded Mickey of Ian, in a strange way. He didn’t look like Ian. He was middle-aged and Asian and almost as short as Mickey, but something about the way he watched Mickey, the patient, open kindness in his eyes, was familiar. 

Mickey also liked the way the therapist didn’t try to force Mickey to speak right away, especially since Mickey’s throat still felt thick with nerves.

“Hey, Mickey,” he said. “Have a seat.” When Mickey did, the therapist, Dr. Tran, apparently, observed him for a moment. Mickey stared at his feet, waiting.

“What do you want to get out of therapy, Mickey?” Dr. Tran asked after a long enough pause that Mickey’s mind had begun to wander.

Mickey’s head snapped up. “Um.” He swallowed, then forced himself to say, “I want to remember.”

Dr. Tran smiled like that was a perfectly reasonable, nay, _exceptional_ thing to want. He had a wide smile that stretched across his face almost like a cartoon character. 

“Well. I think we can work with that. I assume you mean—is this from before you were brought home in the spring?” 

Feeling oddly embarrassed, Mickey nodded. “Yes.” 

“Do you remember anything from the time you were away?”

“No.” Mickey’s brow furrowed as he thought. “Yes. Some of it. I don’t know.”

Dr. Tran watched Mickey for another moment, his regard simple. Mickey thought it should bother him to be stared at more than it did, but Dr. Tran was pretty non-threatening. He almost melted into the muted background tones of the wall behind his desk. Then, “Is there anything specific you want to remember? I have your case file here, but we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

Unbidden, Mickey felt his hands curl into fists. He opened his mouth to speak, but was overwhelmed with the sheer volume of things he wanted, things he needed to _know_. He could only look at the therapist in desperation, mouth slack.

“It’s okay,” Dr. Tran said immediately. “That was too broad of a question anyway. My fault.” He smiled again, and Mickey relaxed. The therapist gestured to a pile of paper on the coffee table in front of Mickey’s chair, and Mickey looked at it, noticing it for the first time.

“Do you like to draw?” Dr. Tran asked.

Mickey shrugged. “I can’t remember.” He thought maybe he used to, but then, he thought maybe the suggestion itself was enough for him to wonder, to doubt. He didn’t know the person he was before anymore, anyway.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like for you to give it a try.” Dr. Tran pointed at a pile of colored pencils on the other side of the paper. “If you could, I’d like you to draw some of the things you’d like to remember.”

Mouth turning downward in frustration, Mickey asked, “How the hell can I do that?” 

“Sometimes it can help to let your mind tell the story, when the subject you’re trying to think about is very big. Like memories over several years.”

Which made a negative kind of sense to Mickey, but then, he wasn't the therapist. Dr. Tran seemed confident, at least. Dubiously, Mickey picked up a gray colored pencil, looking at it, then in the direction of Dr. Tran.

“Tell you what. You draw for five minutes, and if you start having trouble, you can stop and we can move on to something else.” Dr. Tran raised his hands in the air, all _do we have a deal_? 

Mickey thought about it. Five minutes wasn’t very long, and he was pretty sure the dumb drawing thing wouldn’t do anything, anyway. He nodded, and when Dr. Tran smiled, Mickey looked down at the blank sheet of paper in front of him and put the tip of his colored pencil on it.

At first, it was strange. It felt uncomfortable to grip the pencil in his hand. He was barely getting the hang of holding a pencil for writing during tutoring, and Ben didn’t make him write that often, wary of tiring Mickey’s injured hands. He moved self-consciously as he tentatively drew a circle now, then filled it in. He felt like a kid who was trying to be childlike but was doing it wrong.

He drew another circle, then a stick figure. He scribbled in a gray series of clouds over the figure’s head, then pushed the piece of paper aside and started on a new drawing. 

When he looked up, Dr. Tran was focused on a stack of papers of his own, and somehow it helped knowing that Mickey wasn’t completely on the spot while the therapist was distracted.

Slowly, he stopped thinking so hard, letting the hypnotic movement of the pencil over paper, the soft _scriff scriff_ sound, lull him into a sort of fugue state.

After a while, Mickey blinked, only to realize he had no idea how long he’d been sitting there, furiously scribbling over the pages. He must’ve drawn on ten pages or so, a serious dent made in the original blank stack.

The images on the paper came slowly back into focus as he sat back to study them. They seemed unfamiliar to his eyes, even though he’d just spent who knew how long drawing them. He looked up and saw that Dr. Tran had moved closer without Mickey’s knowledge, sitting on the chair across the coffee table so he could better see Mickey’s drawings. 

“Looks like you had a lot on your mind,” Dr. Tran said mildly. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Because he didn’t. If these pictures were some kind of path into his memory, he was already lost.

He looked at the page closest to him that he’d drawn last, scrunching his forehead in thought.

There were clumsy stick figures strewn across the page, the figure in the middle taller than the others. The figure, and Mickey knew somehow that it was a boy, was screaming, a wide circle where his mouth should be. The other stick figures were small and squeezed into the corners, like they were cowering. “I don’t know what this—I didn’t, I.” He stuttered to a halt, looking up pleadingly, staring at the light blue tie under Dr. Tran’s sweater. 

Dr. Tran did not seem nearly as perturbed. “You said earlier that you want to remember.” He reached forward to push through the pages on the coffee table, pausing on one sheet that was just scribbles of black around a blank white space in the middle. “It sounds like you’re having trouble doing that on your own, but where do you think memories live?”

Mickey didn’t answer. He wanted to tell Dr. Tran that he was the fucking doctor, so he should know that already, but he still felt off-kilter, the pages in front of him staring at him like they’d been created by the hands of a stranger. 

Seeming to read Mickey’s mind, Dr. Tran’s lowered his voice to an even quieter, gentler tone. “Recovering the parts of your memory you want to recover, when your own mind is trying to protect you, can be extremely difficult.”

He started shuffling Mickey’s pictures into a neat pile, putting them into a plain beige folder and handing them to Mickey. Mickey took them warily, unsure what he was meant to do with a pile of drawings he didn’t even understand.

“I see in your notes from your social worker that you like school, so here’s some homework.” Dr. Tran leaned to check the file on his desk, then turned back to Mickey.

“I don’t like _school_ ,” Mickey said, feeling stubbornly antagonistic in the face of Dr. Tran’s impenetrable composure. “I’m not even _in_ school. I just like—books. I like to read books.” 

This, predictably, also did not ruffle Dr. Tran. “Even better. We have another session for later in the week, but before then—I want you to think of your life as a story. When you read stories, you don’t know everything at once, right?”

Mickey stared at Dr. Tran’s tie, refusing to dignify such a stupid question with a response.

“And a lot of stories have pictures, right?” Even though Mickey didn’t nod or shake his head, Dr. Tran smiled like he had. “So when you’re having trouble remembering something, try to draw it. Let your brain explain what’s missing in the story to you. Or you can just do what you did during this last hour—draw without thinking.”

Mickey finally caved, and demanded, “Why?” He felt angry, and a little bit betrayed by Vicky, that she brought him to this stranger's office to do nothing but draw pictures for an hour. “How will that help?”

“How do your hands feel?” Dr. Tran asked instead of answering, and Mickey squeezed his hands into fists, noticing for the first time that they were sore from holding the pencil in one hand, and the other from holding the paper stable on the table with an iron grip.

“They’re fine,” Mickey gritted out.

“Drawing regularly should help your motor control. It should help your cognitive functioning as well. Your whole body works together like that.”

Mickey got the feeling Dr. Tran was using big words on purpose now, and indeed, a tiny smile played around the corner of his mouth. But while Mickey expected to feel enraged at the coyness, the patient set of Dr. Tran’s eyes stopped him from feeling teased.

Fine. Whatever. He could draw his feelings or whatever dumb shit this was for the rest of the week. It wasn’t like he didn’t have the time, he thought wryly.

Dr. Tran walked him to the door, putting his hand on the doorknob. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Mickey.”

Mickey studied the therapist for a moment, trying to figure something, anything out about the man. But he gave up quickly. He’d only been drawing, but he left the room feeling fatigued in his very bones. 

He walked into the waiting room and stopped in surprise when he saw not only Vicky, but also Mandy, sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chairs, both looking up expectantly when Mickey stopped in the doorway.

“Hey there,” Vicky said, folding shut the case files she’d been looking at in her lap. “How’d it go?”

“You feel more connected to your inner child?” Mandy snarked, ignoring Vicky’s eye roll like a pro.

“What are you—why.” Mickey couldn’t help the warmth in his stomach at seeing his sister, and even the social worker. It felt stabilizing after an hour of uncertain floating with the inscrutable Dr. Tran.

“Heard you were getting your therapy on,” Mandy said, standing to come over and pat him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She pulled her backpack up and started walking for the door to outside.

Vicky joined him where he stood stock-still. “You seemed nervous,” she said softly. “So I picked her up first. Thought it might help to have some family here.” 

Mickey swallowed, but it took some effort. “Thanks,” he croaked.

To his infinite relief, Vicky didn’t comment on his discomfiture, and instead led him out of the therapist’s office to where Mandy was waiting by Vicky’s town car. 

“Come on, while we’re young.” She smiled toothily at Mickey. “Ian called. We’re eating at the Gallagher’s again. Gotta get there before they eat all the food without us.”

Since the week before, Mickey and Mandy had eaten dinner at the Gallaghers three times, to Lip’s vocal disgruntlement. The rest of the Gallaghers didn’t seem to care, and now, after the draining therapy session, he felt an almost panicked need to be close to Ian again.

“Okay,” Mickey said, and got into the car.

He held the folder of drawings loosely to his chest, watching the city go by out his window, wondering if his mind was indeed protecting him like Dr. Tran said it was, what it was protecting him from.

 

***

 

“This isn’t a shelter,” Lip said sourly from the doorway to the boys’ bedroom. He glared across the empty room at Ian, who was on his bed texting Mandy that Fiona was making lasagna.

Ian looked up innocently. “It isn’t?” he asked, deliberately obtuse.

“Don’t be an asshole.” Lip rolled his eyes and threw himself onto the bed beside Ian. “Why is it so fucking important for Mickey to be over here all the time now?”

Looking at his hands in his lap, Ian shrugged. “I just like being around him. And I think he likes being around us. His house is kind of fucked up right now.”

Lip snorted at the elaborate understatement. “Yeah, I bet it is. Scary Terry on the warpath?”

Ian winced, and Lip sat up alertly from his slouch. “Ian, did something happen?” When Ian didn’t answer, Lip punched him in the arm, hard enough that Ian reared back, grabbing the now-sore bicep. “If something happened, you need to tell me, Ian.”

“I don’t need to tell you everything,” Ian said, only somewhat petulantly.

“What’s with you lately?” Lip demanded. “You’re never around, it’s always work-this or ROTC-that, when you were _never_ this busy last year. And now Mickey’s more of a shadow then ever, and I just—you can talk to me, man. You know that, right?” He lowered his voice, ducking his head to look Ian in the eye, but Ian looked away.

Even thinking about what had happened at the Milkoviches still gave him chills, and while Ian was tentatively hopeful that space away from Terry was primarily responsible for Mickey’s current progress, his smiles, his willingness to engage with therapy and tutoring and the various machinations of Vicky the social worker, all of it—even then, he still couldn’t make himself forget the way Mickey’s eyes had gone somehow both emotionless and wild in the second before he threw himself on Terry’s back. It made Ian feel cold in his chest.

“I’m fine,” he told Lip.

He didn’t want to think about Mickey like that. He didn’t want to tell Lip about working at the Kash N Grab and keeping it from Mickey either. He just wanted his brother to stay the fuck _out of it_ , which was a doomed desire if ever there was one. 

True to form, Lip opened his mouth, ready to argue some more, when Fiona hollered up the stairs, “Ian! Lip! Mickey and Mandy are here, dinner’s ready!”

“Thank god we waited for Mickey and Mandy,” Lip muttered as he hauled himself to his feet.

“Oh whatever, like you’re not always hitting on Mandy across the table,” Ian said, shoving Lip lightly to get through the doorway first. 

Lip gave him a deeply unamused look. “Until you have to sit through watching you play footsie or whatever you’re doing with Mickey all through dinner, you have no room to talk.” Lip shoved back, and they stomped down the stairs together

In the kitchen, Debbie was talking animatedly to Mandy, while Mickey hovered uncertainly by the staircase as Fiona earnestly discussed the fat content of tonight’s lasagna. Ian shook his head, imagining how not interested in that information Mickey probably was.

When Mandy saw Ian, she smiled. “Hey! I haven’t seen you in forever, where have you been lately?”

Lip gave him a knowing look and Ian rolled his eyes. “Hey, I've missed you too, Mandy,” he said, coming to stand by Mickey. He sat, Mickey mirroring him, and he squeezed Mickey’s knee under the table.

Dinner was the usual loud affair, Carl arguing with Fiona about what did, and what did not, constitute an appropriate science fair project (“You can’t bring in a frigging _axe_ to your fourth grade science fair, what does that even have to do with _science_ , Carl?”), while Lip flirted outrageously with Mandy and Ian gritted his teeth, trying not to roll his eyes every time Mandy giggled and Lip looked smug.

Besides, he was more concerned with Mickey beside him, who, while never especially talkative at Gallagher dinners, normally wasn’t _completely_ silent. At the very least he’d carry on a whispered conversation with Ian, but tonight, he was distracted, staring off in to the distance even when Mandy asked him a question directly, or Ian tried to get his attention.

Ian couldn’t help but worry, the rest of the dinner discussion fading away. He didn’t want to bring it up in front of everybody else though, and could only frown in apprehension, waiting.

Luck seemed to be on his side, however, when dinner ended and they finished clearing the table. Fiona hefted Liam into her arms, smiling brightly at Ian. 

“We’re heading to Kev and V’s, Veronica said she had a bootleg copy of Con Air,” she said happily. A full house at dinner always put her in a good mood. “You guys want to come with?”

“No thanks,” Ian said, eyes on Mickey.

Lip was watching Ian, though, eyes narrowed. “Sure, why not?” He turned to Mandy with a wide, unassuming smile. “You want to come with?”

Mandy tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, and Ian could see her blushing from across the room. Goddamnit, he groaned internally. Goddamn _Lip_. 

“Um, sure.” She gave Lip a small, flattered smile, and when she turned her back, Lip raised his eyebrows at Ian. _You got something to say_? his eyebrows asked.

_Go fuck yourself_ , Ian tried to make his eyebrows reply. He'd deal with that later. For now, he had to figure out what was wrong with Mickey.

And with that, Fiona and the rest of Ian’s siblings (plus a pleased-looking Mandy), trooped out of the house, leaving Ian and Mickey in the living room. Mickey still seemed quiet, and when they were finally alone Ian pulled him upstairs to the relative privacy of his bedroom. 

Mickey pulled away when they were in Ian’s room, walking in a restless circuit while Ian closed the door. Ian watched for a moment, then stepped closer when Mickey completed his lap.

“What’s up?” Ian said softly, watching the way Mickey leaned his weight back, letting Ian crowd him against the closed door.

“Nothing,” Mickey said, staring at Ian’s collarbone, biting his lip. Obviously lying, but Ian didn’t want to push him when he was already so on edge. “I just—I don’t want to think right now.”

Ian scanned his mind for something soothing, or at the very least comforting, but Mickey didn't seem to want that, either. With a determined bent to his mouth, Mickey surged up and kissed Ian, the momentum making Ian stumble back a bit. A concerned hum in Ian’s throat, he kissed back, trying to gentle the contact even as Mickey bit at Ian’s bottom lip sharp enough that Ian yelped. It hurt, but it also ran down his body in a crackle of electricity, and just like that, he was hardening in his jeans.

He pressed forward, bracketing Mickey’s head with his forearms, and let himself get carried away. He licked and nipped at Mickey’s mouth in return, loving the way he could make Mickey’s breathing speed up until he had to rip his mouth free to pant, Ian biting softly on the cord of his neck, not quite as comfortable with marking as Mickey was. 

“Ian,” Mickey gasped, his voice cracking. He drew his knee up until it cradled Ian’s hips more effectively, grinding together. Ian wrapped both arms tight around Mickey’s waist, moaning as their hips connected again, and again, the rhythm picking up, the friction so intense it was painful.

Mickey rocked forward, sucking the lobe of Ian’s ear into his mouth, and in a burst of movement, Ian scooped his arms down under Mickey’s thighs and yanked him up, Mickey grunting in surprise as he wrapped his legs around Ian's waist.

Ian was surprised by high easy it was to heft Mickey up. He’d gained weight since the summer but he still felt light, like he had hollow bones like a bird.

He tilted Mickey against the wall so he was only supporting some of his weight, one arm around Mickey’s waist, bracing his other forearm near Mickey’s head, searching his face, breathing heavily, his cock throbbing but waiting for the go ahead anyway.

He knew Mickey usually liked to be in control, and he wasn’t sure he’d be down for this. 

“This okay?” Ian asked, jerked his hips forward slightly so they were grinding together again, the angle changed enough that when Mickey rocked his hips forward, he fell onto the shape of Ian’s cock with force that made them both freeze.

Mickey made a sharp sound, like a sudden gasp and a moan all at once. He tightened his arms around Ian’s neck so their foreheads pressed together. He nodded frantically. 

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Mickey breathed, “it’s really okay, just move again, _please_.” 

Ian kissed him again, sucking on his tongue. He felt Mickey’s fingers moving between them and then the sound of zippers, and then both of their cocks were free, rubbing against each other.

For a moment Ian felt guilty, thinking of how quiet Mickey was at dinner, thinking he should slow down, or stop completely so he could get to the bottom of what was on his mind, not rush to get off with Mickey’s legs around his waist.

But then Mickey cupped his face, licking once at his bottom lip before staring into Ian’s eyes. “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay.” 

Dropping his face into Mickey’s neck, Ian bent his knees and humped against Mickey’s body, every other thought evacuating his mind as he tried to fuck Mickey against the wall, their bare cocks rubbing together, Mickey’s hand reaching to encircle them at the base and get a counter-rhythm going.

“Mick,” Ian muttered, getting lost as he hefted Mickey up and down, loving the weight of him, the smell of him, loving _him_ , this moment, every moment, together. “Mick, Mick.”

“I know,” Mickey said, throwing his head back, thrusting down mindlessly. “Oh god, _Ian_.” 

Mickey yelled as he came, hot come splashing against Ian’s cock, and then it only took a few more wild, graceless thrusts before Ian was coming too, Mickey’s flushed, sweaty, goddamn _beautiful_ face all he could see as he shook, biting his lip.

In the ringing aftermath, Ian barely had the presence of mind to lower Mickey down on shaky legs. They stood trembling against one another, Ian’s open mouth pressed to Mickey’s neck.

When he could speak again, when he could _think_ again, Ian pulled back enough to look at Mickey. Mickey looked breathless but not quite as adrift as before. It didn't feel like enough.

“You know you can tell me things,” Ian said, unaware until the words were already out that he was parroting his own brother.

“I know,” Mickey murmured. He sounded tired, like the day had taken it all out of him. “Can we just, do this? For a while?”

Ian tightened his grip around Mickey’s shoulders and nodded. “Sure we can.”

And they stood together against the doorway, Mickey leaning into Ian, Ian’s arms wound protectively around Mickey’s shuddering body, until Ian lost track of everything else.

He hoped this was enough. He hoped _he_ was enough, to protect Mickey from whatever was happening in the secret caverns of his mind. 

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks so much for all your support! You dudes are the best!
> 
> Also, FYI: The next update will be **Monday, March 23.** I'm taking a brief week-long hiatus to catch up on some other projects, but I might have a two-chapter update that Monday to make up for it. Sorry for the delay, dudes.
> 
> Tumblr: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com. Check out the tag "BITB fic" for updates on this fic. :)


	8. Chapter 8

***

**December**

***

 

It was getting colder out. Objectively, Mickey knew he was still skinny enough that it should bother him more, but sometimes it felt like while he noticed the chill in the air, it barely permeated his skin. He wondered if it was his brain protecting him, like Dr. Tran sometimes talked about. Like it had learned to protect his body from painful realities, like it had forgotten that it no longer needed to do so quite as vehemently anymore.

Sometimes he found himself thinking of his brain and his body and also, strangely, his mind, as all distinct, independent entities cooperating, somewhat clumsily, to accomplish a task. It made him feel strangely tender, envisioning the disparate parts of himself working together to protect himself, and then he wondered what part of him was thinking that, was it his mind with his thoughts, or his brain with its instinctual drives, or was there a bigger, broader umbrella of himself, observing it all at a remove? Where did he, himself, _Mickey_ , really live, was he in his body or was he outside of it, watching everything unfold?

Then he usually got a slight headache, trying to untangle it all, and forced himself to stop.

Still, it made him tentatively proud that he was able to unwind himself this way, however ineffectually. He wasn’t quite read to admit that he was feeling better. He wasn’t really sure what better meant, really, but he knew he was feeling calmer. More alert, less angry all the time. Rarely so bored and disconnected from everything. 

He was reading more, and working on homework from Ben often enough that he didn’t feel trapped in interminable days, alone until Ian or Mandy came home. 

And Dr. Tran, while still an odd, enigmatic force, also possessed the near-supernatural power of projecting serenity. It oozed from him in an unstoppable wave. Mickey was powerless not to absorb at least some of it, and carry it with him throughout his days. He came out of his therapy sessions feeling vaguely stoned, but not in a bad way. 

Mostly because Dr. Tran never seemed worried about Mickey and his ability to one day, if he so chose, to remember. Almost against his will, Mickey started to believe that, too.

It was starting to snow one evening, after yet another dinner at the Gallagher house. Mickey was coming to rely on the steady routine of those dinners. He liked having a routine, he realized. It was cold again, but while Mandy was shivering as they walked home, he barely noticed.

Mandy had refused to let him stay over with Ian, bossily demanding that he walk her home. He didn’t think it was because she wanted protection (“Of course I can fucking take care of myself, that’s not the point.”), so he thought maybe it was because she missed him. The very idea had made him look down and smirk, but he nodded, acquiescing without argument. He would’ve liked to stay over with Ian again, but it was becoming easier to believe that he would be there later, and that Mickey didn’t need to panic and squeeze everything he could out of every interaction. 

Ian would be there tomorrow, and the day after. So would Mickey. It was a comforting thought.

When Mandy and Mickey turned the corner onto their block, though, he saw from a distance that the lights were on through the windows of their living room. He didn’t say anything, but he could tell the moment Mandy noticed too. They both stopped on the sidewalk leading up the front porch.

Mickey got an instant stomachache. 

“Maybe we just left the lights on,” Mandy said softly.

“I don’t think we left the lights on,” Mickey answered, voice thick with dread. He’d had tutoring and therapy that afternoon, and Mandy had been hanging out with Ian at the library before they’d all met up at his house for dinner. 

Terry and their brothers had been gone for over a month. Mandy didn’t know the details of what had happened that night with Terry, but in that predictive way she had with Mickey so often now, she knew it was bad. And it didn’t take much deductive reasoning to figure out that whatever the reason, the Milkovich house was infinitely more stable without the volcanic threat of Terry’s presence. It was also much quieter without Iggy and Colin jabbering like monkeys. Joey’s absence was neutral. He rarely spoke anyway, and was usually asleep.

Pushing Mickey behind her, Mandy started up the stairs, Mickey close behind. He’d complain about the overprotectiveness, but his heart was hurting from pounding so hard, so he stayed dutifully at her back.

Mandy opened the front door, and they walked inside. 

Iggy was standing in the middle of the room, glaring at them. Joey and Colin were on the couch, watching him carefully, like they were waiting for him to erupt. 

Mickey exhaled silently, still too tense to relax completely, since for all they knew Terry was in his room or on his way home still, with Iggy and the boys as an advance front line.

“Is Dad here?” Mandy asked carefully, echoing Mickey’s fears.

“I could ask you the same fucking question,” Iggy spat, kicking the recliner hard enough to end the heavy piece of furniture colliding wit the couch. 

“Where the hell have you three been?” Mandy demanded, and Mickey could appreciate the tactic. Go on the offensive immediately, send the other side scrambling to defend, use the extra time to assemble a plan. Mandy was nobody’s fool, at least.

She crossed her arms defiantly, waiting as Iggy sputtered in enraged disbelief.

“You fucking kidding me?” he eventually got out. “You fucking—you’re really asking me?” 

She snapped her fingers in rhythmic impatience. “Come on, while we’re young, dickhead.”

“We spent the last month tracking him down!” Iggy exploded. 

“Where was he?” Mickey asked. All of his siblings seemed borderline startled that he’d inserted himself into the fray, but he kept his chin up, focusing on Iggy’s shoulder. 

“When he caught up with him, he was in Baraboo,” Colin offered. “He was fucked up.”

Mickey snorted. His dad was upset Mickey was into guys. Mickey was trying to come to terms with losing three years of his goddamn _life_. He couldn’t find it in himself to be too sympathetic. 

“He’s beside himself, man,” Joey said quietly. 

“That’s a goddamn understatement,” Iggy added, shaking his head. He crossed his arms in relatively petulant imitation of Mandy’s stance, squaring off. He pointed at Mickey. “This is your fault. You need to fix it.”

“How the fuck—you’re kidding me.” Mickey balled his hands into fists, automatically retreating until his back was to the wall of the living room, feeling safe with at least one of his vulnerable edges confined. 

Iggy glared at him, his normally squirrely face only going squirrelier with anger. “He told us what happened. Or at least, he told us enough.”

He looked ready to spray more invective, but it was Joey, surprisingly, who stood up, moving in front of Iggy, his face lined and strangely hesitant as he looked at Mickey. “He’s convinced whoever had you in Indiana fucking turned you gay or some shit. Poor asshole’s been blaming himself.”

The nonsense of being turned gay aside, which even as a horny adolescent in the days Before had struck Mickey as hilariously ridiculous—he remembered, suddenly, out of nowhere, the first time he found truly hardcore gay porn online and marveling how _everybody_ wasn’t already gay, if the majority of hard cocks looked like _that_ —Mickey threw his head back so it bumped against the wall. He narrowed his eyes, defensive anger beginning to rise in him. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe he _should_.” The words were bursting from Mickey’s mouth before he could think to say them, or understand exactly what they meant.

“What are you talking about?” Iggy demanded, which, good question, Mickey was trying to untangle it too. Was his brain trying to—did this mean. Was he remembering something? Was he blaming his dad—what was he—?

He had a fleeting, disjointed desire to sit down and draw. It felt like something was close, on the edges of his memory, but not enough, and it was so _frustrating_.

Meanwhile, Mandy was reeling beside him. “Wait, wait—Dad caught you with Ian?” Her eyes were wide, mouth hanging delicately open. Mickey could only shrug, slightly distracted by his own darting thoughts, and she inhaled sharply. “Holy shit, Mickey. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There wasn’t anything to tell. He pulled a gun, wanted to kill Ian, then he left.”

Mickey pointedly excluded the part where he’d felt ready to rip his dad into ribbons of flesh with his bare, semi-functional hands, but Iggy already seemed livid.

For some reason, that seemed to ignite Iggy further. His face was going beat red, his normally pasty skin splotchy as his chest rose on jerky breaths.

“You know what Dad would’ve done to me if he’d caught me fucking around with a dude?” Iggy spat out, erupted really, like he couldn’t keep it in anymore. “He would’ve beat the shit out of me. Probably made me fuck some chick right in front of him, just to prove I wasn’t a faggot.”

“Are you mad he didn’t do that to me?” Mickey asked, honestly perplexed. 

“No,” Iggy retorted. To his credit, he seemed insulted by the implication. Then he frowned. “Yes. Fuck, man, I don’t know. It’s just—it’s like, he’s not our dad anymore. He’s not who he was, when he’s around you.”

It didn’t make any sense, but in a way, Mickey got it. He’d noticed it too, however vaguely at first, that Terry seemed almost permanently off-kilter these days, alternately casual and uptight, uncomfortably gentle and hard, like he was trying on an identity that didn’t quite fit. After a second, Mickey could agree that maybe Iggy was right. It didn’t make sense.

“The way he treats you—we couldn’t even get him to come home, once we found him. He can’t even look at you.” Iggy’s voice was thick. 

“I wasn’t raped,” Mickey said quickly. The word felt weird in his mouth, but it felt important to him to make the distinction. He paused, holding his head at an angle, considering whether he was telling the truth. It had felt reflexive. It felt—true. He didn’t remember anything like— _that_ , not while he was away, Indiana or elsewhere, mostly because he didn’t remember being touched _ever_. 

He wasn’t touched, barely at all. Possibly _never_ at all.

That had been the worst part, he realized in dawning wonder. He was blindsided with the crushing echo of total, screaming isolation. He knew, as surely as he knew anything, that it was a memory. It was a memory from while he was away.

Across the living room, Iggy was ignorant of any recall breakthroughs going down in his brother’s head, caught in his own painful recollections apparently.

Mickey could only watch his brother’s jaw work in dazed silence.

Iggy started to pace, tugging fitfully at his hair. Joey and Colin watched in concern, giving him a wide birth.

“We all thought you were dead. Dad thought it too, everyone did. And it was easier then, because at least we knew, you know? Things could start getting back to normal. But you weren’t dead. You came back,” Iggy said, breathing hard, “you _came back_ , and all of sudden you’re the golden boy again.” He shook his head in disgust. “You can do whatever the fuck you want, and it’s fine. Dad would never think of saying shit to you, now.” He kicked the couch instead of the recliner, making the whole thing shift sideways with a _thunk_. Mickey jerked, startled. Iggy narrowed his eyes. “Everything you do is fine, and it’s not fucking _fair_."

His voice rose until he was yelling, his words ringingly loud. 

Mickey wanted to tell Iggy that nothing was fair. That was the point. He didn’t though. Watching Iggy, who was now flushing even harder, almost like he was embarrassed of his outburst, Mickey felt sorry for him.

Mandy did not, however. Mandy was _pissed_. “What in the _fuck_ ,” she hissed, immediately putting her body between Iggy and Mickey, now sitting on the floor, “is going on with you assholes? Why are you yelling at him?”

She threw her arms up, encompassing the entire house. “So Dad fucked off again. How is that Mickey’s fault? How is that any of our faults?” Strangely, her eyes had gone wet, even as they glowed with anger. “He’s the _dad_ ,” she said, mostly to herself it seemed. “It’s his job to stick around. It’s his job to be here and make things easier and protect us, and he doesn’t do shit most of the time. All he does is make things harder, all the time, and _that’s_ what’s not fucking fair.” 

“Don’t talk about Dad that way,” Colin said, weakly, just as Iggy protested, “That’s not true, Mandy, you know it’s not true.”

“Ask Mickey if it’s true,” she said hotly.

They all turned in unison to Mickey, like they expected him to weigh in as tiebreaker, but even to him it seemed a little excessive to state the obvious. Especially now, with the beginnings of a horrible suspicion growing in his mind. So he raised his eyebrows meaningfully instead. Even Iggy looked away at his expression, like he was ashamed. 

“Now stop yelling,” Mandy said sharply. “You’re freaking him out.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to upset Mickey, nobody mess with Mickey,” Iggy said petulantly.

Mandy rolled her eyes so hard her entire body swayed with it. “Oh my _god_ , Iggy.”

Even in the midst of everything, Mickey felt a rush of warmth at the sight of his sister rushing to his defense, throwing herself in without a thought.

She stepped forward to shove Iggy in the chest, whose eyes went wide with betrayal, caught off guard at the hit enough that he stepped back. “Could you be more of a freaking cliché right now?” Her voice went high and mocking. “‘Oh no, I’m not Daddy’s favorite anymore.’” She shoved him again. “Grow up, asshole. If you’re mad at Dad, _be mad at Dad_. Leave Mickey alone.”

Colin shuffled his feet, obviously subdued, Joey had settled back into the couch, apparently exhausted by his rare foray into human interaction. Iggy looked mutinous, but thankfully silent, now. Finally. 

“So Dad’s really not coming back?” Mandy clarified after a moment.

“Who knows,” Iggy said tiredly. Deflated, he sat on the arm of the couch. “He wouldn’t come back with us. We’ve been doing some jobs for him in Michigan, and we didn’t know anything was wrong until Uncle Ronnie called us up. Said he’d been drunk in Wisconsin for weeks.” 

Mandy nodded, absorbing that information. Mickey frowned, trying to understand why his dad would be so guilty. Why he wasn’t angrier about finding Mickey with a guy, like Iggy had pointed out. It was a mystery.

“Well, have you assholes eaten?” Mandy asked Iggy, the tentative peace offering clear. When Iggy shook his head, she started for the kitchen without another word. 

In the silence after the storm, Colin turned on the TV to a sports channel that was recapping hockey games. Mickey watched Iggy sigh and turn to blindly stare at the TV. Cautiously, Mickey pulled his knees up to his chest, watching his brothers.

On the coffee table in front of the couch, there was a pile of Mickey’s drawings. They were getting kind of good, he could admit to himself. He was doing less stick figure drawing, more shading. He didn’t get as frustrated when the pictures didn’t look like anything clear yet.

Iggy looked at them curiously. He pawed at the page on top, studying it. He made a face. “The fuck is this?” He looked at Mickey, and for the first time since Mickey and Mandy had walked back into the house, he didn’t seem angry, just confused.

“It’s mine,” Mickey said, feeling daring. Fuck Iggy if he was going to make fun of him for it, he thought defiantly. “I started—I’m going to therapy.”

“Really?” Iggy’s eyebrows went skeptically high. “Talking to some stranger about your feelings and shit?” 

Weirdly enough, Dr. Tran rarely asked Mickey directly about his feelings, which Mickey had never really fixated on before. He wondered at it now though, in the face of Iggy’s distaste. 

“It’s not really like that,” he hedged. “It’s—it’s not so bad.”

Iggy didn’t look convinced, and Colin followed his lead, rolling his eyes. “Probably that social worker bitch’s idea, right?”

“Her name’s Vicky,” Mickey corrected, feeling strangled protective of Vicky, who wasn’t even there to be offended in the first place.

Joey made a considering noise without turning away from the TV. “Therapy probably isn’t the worst idea in the world,” he said drowsily. “Kid’s been through some shit.” 

Mickey stared in surprise. “Uh, yeah,” he mumbled. “It’s been okay.” He swallowed, emboldened. “I been going to tutoring too.” He lifted his chin, slightly proud.

“Good for you, man,” Joey said absently, and when Iggy scowled at him, Joey waved a hand around vaguely. “What? Things with Dad might be fucked up, but the kid’s been sitting around the goddamn house for months, probably good he’s out doing shit, you know? Yo, turn it up.” He kicked at Colin, motioning for the remote control.

Joey and Colin seemed content to veg out. Iggy looked through the pile of drawings some more. Mickey pushed up from the wall and crept closer, quietly, until he could slide onto the recliner beside Iggy’s spot on the couch.

“What are these supposed to be?” Iggy asked after a while.

“Memories, I guess. I don’t know shit. The therapist, the doctor—he says this might help.”

“Does it?” Iggy looked interested despite himself.

Mickey sighed. “I can’t tell yet. I think maybe. I think, maybe…I think I might remember stuff about Dad.” 

“The fuck you mean, ‘stuff about Dad’?”

Mickey chose his words carefully, mincing along something he'd barely articulated to himself yet. “Some of the things Dad's said, sometimes they kind of—they reminded me of something. Like I could almost remember him, you know. Being there, when I was—back in the beginning, when I was first, you know. Taken.” 

“That’s a fucking great movie,” Colin muttered, clearly paying more attention to the TV.

“What the _fuck_ , man,” Iggy said, indignant at Mickey's tentative accusation. “Dad wasn’t there.” He looked horrified at the suggestion, which Mickey supposed was gratifying. “He thought you were dead. I told you.” 

“Yeah, well,” Mickey said vaguely. “I’m trying to figure out what’s in my head.”

“How is drawing supposed to help?”

Mickey shook his head, feeling frustrated and incapable of explaining. “I just want to know, something, _anything_ that someone else doesn’t have to _tell me_ , first.” He patted at his bony chest. “There’s this blank space in me. It’s just filled with everything I _should_ know, but it’s empty.”

“That’s deep, man,” Iggy said with a smirk. Mickey punched his shoulder, and Iggy chuckled, and the whole thing felt strangely—brotherly.

“You assholes good with casserole?” Mandy hollered from the kitchen.

“Sounds good!” Colin and Iggy yelled in unison, then smirked at each other. 

After a while, Iggy set down the pictures and Mickey pulled them toward himself. He traced the shapes absently while Iggy settled in to watch the sports recaps.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to go back to school,” Iggy said after another pause, the sounds of Mandy banging pots and pans together audible from the kitchen. “I can’t wait to leave that shithole and never look back. You know the truancy lady still calls and tries to track down my ass? Fucking bullshit is what it is.”

Mickey smiled minutely. “I like it.”

“Yeah, I bet you do, you loser.” Iggy snorted. He looked at Mickey slyly out of the corner of his eye. “So that fucking redheaded Gallagher kid, huh?”

Mickey couldn’t help but smile wider, helpless to do anything but _respond_ at the thought of Ian. He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Loser,” Iggy said again, but it sounded almost fond. “So you’re really—with the dudes?” And when Mickey nodded, Iggy looked almost inquisitive. “For how long?”

Mickey couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow. “Remember Chris Haggerty?” When Iggy nodded, Mickey leered obviously.

It took a minute for it to connect, and when it did, Iggy looked deeply offended. “What!” His eyes were wide like dishes. “ _What_!”

Mickey tried not to look too satisfied with himself, but it was hard. “Why do you think he used to disappear to the bathroom for thirty minutes at a time whenever he was over here?”

“Come on, man,” Iggy said, rolling his eyes as he made a face. “No details.”

“You asked,” Mickey said. Iggy huffed, and they fell into silence, the sounds of the TV and Mandy in the kitchen the only sounds in the Milkovich house for a while after that. 

Mickey liked it. He hadn’t liked being at his house like this since he’d come home in the spring. He felt quietly, tentatively peaceful. 

It would be nice if that lasted, he thought to himself.

 

***

 

Ian was considering the best way to to quit the Kash N Grab. He was going to call Linda that afternoon, he decided. He might not even finish his shift. The important part was he was leaving this store, and never coming back. 

The whole thing was dumb. Agreeing to work here was a stupid idea, and he was coming to realize he’d been stupid to agree to it. He hated his own impulsive need to prove himself, even when nobody else was watching. It was like he wanted to prove he could do it, and to Kash that he didn’t care, but there wasn’t a medal at the end of it. There was just working the same tedious job at the Kash N Grab three nights a week, now with no sex, and watching Kash embark on a torrid affair with poor, shy, dumb Jaime.

And the whole time he was caught in this elaborate, ridiculous lie to his family and his—his Mickey, pretending he was at the library and ROTC when he was here, staring at the clock, willing the hands to move faster.

And the worst part, the absolute _worst part_ was that he was still, _even now_ , fighting his own natural stubbornness in attempting to quit. A whispery, slithery voice was saying, over and over, that he was being a coward, and he was being weak, that he could handle this, that he was a quitter, that he was letting Kash win. It was maddening. He couldn’t banish the voice. He couldn’t even fully ignore it.

He held his cell phone in his hand, Linda’s number queued up, his thumb hovering over the green Send button, and he couldn’t do it, like his thumb was possessed by an evil twin who didn’t want Ian to be happy.

“No phones while you’re on a shift, Ian,” Kash said as he came in from the back, making Ian jerk in surprise. He didn’t think Kash was coming in today. Jaime wasn’t making any deliveries, so why would he, Ian thought, somewhat bitterly.

“Stickler for the rules these days, huh?” he grumbled, but put his phone away all the same. It was a relief to pause the quitting decision for now.

Kash made a soft, wounded face. Ian gritted his teeth. He really wanted to hit the guy. “Don’t be like that.”

Ian huffed and went back to reading his magazine. Kash moved around the store, arranging displays, restocking some Ramen in the back. Like everything was fine. Like nothing had changed. Like as long as Ian was quiet and biddable, Kash didn't care one way or the other.

It made Ian’s skin itch.

“Were you ever really into me?” The question surged out of Ian’s mouth so smoothly, even though he had no idea it had even been on his mind.

Kash seemed surprised too. He paused where he was rearranging a display of melons in front of the register and straightened. “What?” He took a step closer. “Ian, is everything okay?”

It was times like this where Ian had a hard time understanding who Kash really was. Was this an authentic part of him, the soft, concerned older man who used to dutifully listen to Ian complain about Fiona’s rules and Frank’s blithe neglect of their whole family? Or was he really the man who had tried to get Ian fired for breaking up? Or the man who liked keeping Ian behind the counter so he could watch him seduce Jaime, both always within arms reach?

He was like a collector, Ian thought dimly. Like a spider. 

“I’m fine,” he muttered, hunching his shoulders as Kash took a tentative step forward.

He expected Kash to leave him alone after that, but Ian’s question seemed to strike a cord. He swallowed, shifting his weight restlessly, until Ian sighed and snapped his eyes up to meet Kash’s.

“What?” he demanded.

“Of course I liked you, Ian,” Kash said in a faint voice.

A young, needy part of Ian couldn’t help but preen at that. It was crazy, that even now, Kash’s approval was headier than anything they had ever done sexually or romantically as a couple. 

But then he thought of Jaime, and the way his cheeks would go rosy whenever Kash leaned toward him as they stacked boxes in back. Ian wondered if Kash had told Jaime he loved him yet, or if that was something special he saved for later, when Kash was trying to rewrite history and frame things to his own liking.

Ian looked down at the magazine in his lap, the words indistinct as he glared. “Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll get over it with Jaime,” he said sourly. 

“Of course I liked—I _loved_ you,” Kash insisted, like Ian hadn’t even spoken. “You were the one— _you_ wanted to stop.”

Ian hated that he believed him, even for a moment. It made him feel childish, easily manipulated. Mostly, it made him afraid he would always be this easily hoodwinked, and guilty that he didn’t know how to be better than that—smarter, less gullible maybe. How did you get that way, he wondered. When did it happen?

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Lip’s floated through his head: _when you grow up, you idiot._

Despite himself, a corner of his mouth turned up. He felt Kash’s hand resting on his shoulder but he barely registered it.

“You’re a good kid, Ian,” Kash said, and it was the easy way he said “kid”, like it didn’t matter, that made Ian’s head suddenly clear.

_I quit._ The words were on his lips. He opened his mouth to say them, heart beating faster in anticipation.

The bell over the entrance to the store chimed, and Ian turned to face the customer as Kash dropped his hand from his shoulder, the guise of employee and respectful employer falling easily over them both. 

Mickey was standing in the doorway. He looked smaller than usual, framed in the spotlight fixtures above the door. He was only in a thin sweatshirt, Iggy’s probably, and Ian had a fretful thought that he was probably cold. He should be wearing a coat against the winter chill building outside.

“Can I help—you.” Kash’s voice went speculative. “I know you.”

“Ian,” Mickey said, not sparing Kash much attention. 

“Hey,” Ian said weakly. A traitorous blush worked its way up his neck and jaw, like it sometimes did when he felt anxious. He hated it mostly because it made him look guilty, and he wanted to jut his chin out defiantly and argue he had nothing to be guilty about. He was just working. He was about to quit. It wasn’t a big deal. There was no reason for Mickey to be narrowing his eyes. 

For Kash, realization was only continuing to dawn. “You’re the kid who came in and stole my gun,” he was saying. For some reason, he moved a step to the side so he was standing partially in front of Ian. Like he was protecting him.

Still, Mickey didn’t seem to care much about Kash. He was looking at Ian. “You weren’t at the library,” Mickey said, the skin between his eyebrows puckering. “You said you were working.”

“I am working,” Ian croaked. He must have gotten the days mixed up. His throat felt thick and he swallowed. “I mean, I was working.”

“Wait, you know him?” Kash threw over his shoulder. “He’s the Milkovich kid they found in the box, isn’t he?”

Ian stood up in a fluid motion, moving away from Kash. “Shut up,” he told Kash, holding a hand somewhat uselessly in Mickey’s direction. “Mickey." 

“You’re still working here?” Mickey took a few steps toward Ian like he couldn’t help himself, drawn against his will. He stopped in front of the register. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ian opened his mouth, let it hang that way for a moment. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he’d expected to happen, now that he was faced with it. What his end game was. He’d had a vague idea of working a few more months, saving enough money to deposit in a flourish into the squirrel fund to his siblings’ delight, and quietly quit the store without anyone the wiser.

It wasn’t a good plan. He didn’t know why he was so bad at plans. He saw Mickey’s face go soft in confusion, then uncertainty, his hands slack at his sides but not hanging completely flat, and Ian’s chest felt tight.

“You can’t be here,” Kash said. He put a hand on Ian’s shoulder and stepped in front of him again, protectively. “I’ll call the police this time, I swear." 

Irritated, Ian shook Kash’s hand off. “It’s fine,” he said, but as he moved to Mickey, Kash grabbed him by the elbow, pulling him back. “Kash, get off, I said it’s _fine_.” He yanked at his arm but Kash seemed determined to hold him back, grabbing his hip and pushing him toward the register.

“Ian, that’s the guy—” Kash tried to say, but Ian kicked back, connecting with Kash’s thigh, making the older man grunt.

“Get off!”

Ian struggled, and Kash, weirdly stubborn, tried to subdue him and keep him from Mickey, for some reason, but it was only for a moment. Kash sighed, loosening his grip on Ian’s elbow. For all Ian knew, he might have been in the process of untangling their limbs completely, but as they both moved, Kash’s elbow connected with Ian’s cheekbone and Ian swore, jerking away.

There was a yell, something loud and guttural, and then Kash was torn bodily away from Ian.

Ian spun around and watched Mickey leap at Kash, trying to tear at his face with the nails of both hands.

“ _Shit_ ,” Ian breathed, momentarily frozen. Mickey yelled again, throwing his entire weight so that Kash crashed to the ground, knocking a display of grapefruit to the ground, and the commotion jerked Ian back to life.

He threw himself down on the ground, grabbing at Mickey to pull him away, but it was hard to get a grip. Mickey had his arms and legs wrapped around Kash, rolling like an alligator trying to drown its prey. Kash was twice his size, but as he threw his heavy arms out, they didn’t connect. Mickey was going for his eyes, and Kash couldn’t seem to see well enough to prevent the attack.

“Mickey, stop!” Ian’s voice went high on a yelp. “Get off him, Mickey, come on, get off!”

He wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist and yanked. Kash screamed, blood starting to drip down his face. The nails of Mickey’s right hand seemed to be embedded in his face near his cheek.

It was like a flashback to that horrible night with Terry, and yet, something horrendously new all the same. 

Mickey was yelling, grunting, not really getting words out as he scratched at Kash, and he was _strong_ , how was he so strong? He could feel the muscles and tendons working along Mickey’s shoulders and back, struggling against Ian’s hold. 

Finally, not seeing any other options, Ian kneed Mickey in the side, right below his ribs. He tried to do it gently, but that was kind of a lost cause from the outset. It made Mickey wheeze, and loosen his grip on Kash. Ian took advantage of it, rolling them both away, grabbing Mickey from behind and pinning his arms above his head. Kash curled away, moaning, hands clasped to his face, but Ian was focused on Mickey. 

“Stop it,” Ian yelled, gasping to catch his breath. His mouth was right beside Mickey’s ear. “ _Stop_.”

When Mickey seemed still, he let his arms go, but as soon as he was free, Mickey tried to go for Kash again. Ian grappled to get him back, spinning him so he could look him in the eye.

He pried Mickey back enough to look him in the face. There was a bruise forming on is cheek, probably from an errant smack of Kash’s arms. His eyes were bright blue and unseeing, even now struggling to get back to Kash.

Ian gripped both sides of his face, holding him down. “Mickey,” he said sharply. 

Mickey went still. He blinked, coming back to himself. Ian let him go, moving back on his knees. He looked around, feeling sick. There was blood everywhere.

“Jesus christ,” he breathed.

There was a loud moan, and Ian remembered Kash. He turned to him, at the somewhat pitiful sight he made curled on the floor. He could feel Mickey’s eyes on him as he sighed and crawled over. Kash tried to pull away but Ian grabbed his wrists and pushed them away, holding his hands from touching his face. There was too much blood to tell the damage, but he hoped desperately that Mickey hadn’t blinded him. Mickey would go down for that for sure. 

He saw Kash blink and breathed softly in relief. There were deep scratches around Kash’s eyes, but the eyeballs themselves hadn’t been gouged out, potentially by dumb sheer luck. It had obviously been Mickey’s goal.

Ian turned enough that he could see Mickey out of the corner of his eye. Mickey was standing now, his hands still held in front of him, like weapons he’d forgotten to put away after the fight. He was breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling roughly. His hands and wrists were dripping red.

“Ian,” Mickey said, his voice thick. 

“You’re out of control,” Ian told Mickey, his own voice choked. He felt dizzy and overwhelmed. He wished he were in his room at home, curled up under the sheets, asleep. He had a strange, intense longing for Fiona.

Mickey took a step toward Ian, and Ian flinched back on instinct. He regretted it immediately, but he was still too stiff with shock to do much else but stare at Mickey, who had gone rigidly still as well.

Kash was breathing heavily behind him. Ian could actually smell the blood in the air.

“Go home,” Ian rasped. Every second Mickey stood there was another closer to being picked up by the cops. Shit, the video cameras. They were slightly out of frame, in the corner behind the register, but they had to have caught some of the fight. Ian had no idea how he was going to smooth this over, but he couldn’t do it with Mickey hovering over Kash, and Kash lying prone and bleeding below him.

He shook his head, pleading with his eyes for Mickey to understand. “I need to—you can’t be here.” 

Mickey looked ready to argue for a split second, but then he raised his chin. He gave Ian a look almost heavy with defiance, and turned on his heel, darting out of the shop.

Ian rushed behind the counter for the first aid kit Linda kept, but it was poorly stocked, mostly off-brand bandages in weird sizes. Stashed in a cubby at the bottom was an old dishcloth and he grabbed that too, his movements methodical as he tried to focus on the task, not what had happened just moments before.

He sopped at Kash’s face, but Kash yanked the towel away and scooted back to press against the wall. He pulled himself to a seated position, glaring at Ian.

“You get the hell out of here,” he told Ian thinly.

Ian straightened, stepping backward. “Don’t call the cops,” he pleaded, his main concern protecting Mickey, even though he was still shaken seeing Mickey descend into a furious frenzy yet again.

“Get out,” Kash repeated. “You get the hell out, and don’t come back, and keep that animal away from here, too.”

“Kash, please,” Ian said, his eyes wet. He’d never seen Kash this angry before, not hidden behind a quiet, placid façade. He looked betrayed. 

“If you’re not out of here in the next two minutes, I’ll get the police over here.” 

Ian wasn’t sure if that meant he wouldn’t call if Ian left, or if he was just waiting for the store to clear before he did so, but he didn’t know what else to do. His knees shook with adrenaline. He backed out of the store, Kash’s eyes bloodshot and watching him go.

He didn’t realize he was running until his lungs started to ache. He didn’t realize he was heading toward the Milkovich house until he was on the corner, and he forcibly made his feet turn, heading toward his own house instead. 

His head was too busy replaying the last hour in bright, horrific detail. 

Was this something that Mickey would just— _do_ , sometimes? Kash hadn’t been hurting him. Kash probably wouldn’t even know _how_ to hurt him, at least physically. Had Mickey been trying to punish Ian, or had he just been unable to stop himself?

Ian didn’t think Mickey would ever try to hurt him like that. He repeated it to himself over and over as he slowed to a trudge, nearing his own home. He had to believe that Mickey was just upset. He’d just lost control. 

He skipped dinner that night, curling up in bed, trying to figure out if he was scared (yes), if he was scared of the savagery of the fight (probably) or if it was Mickey he was truly scared of, the Mickey who had emerged in that moment (he wasn't sure, and that scared him too).

He closed his eyes, trying to make his mind go blank. All he could see in his head, though, was the blood on Kash’s face, around his eyes, and the red on Mickey’s hands, his fingers clenched like claws. 

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

 

 

***

 

Mickey was starting to feel desperate. He couldn’t get Ian to talk to him. He'd tried to find him at the Gallagher house, and then after school at ROTC. He'd even tried the library, but Ian was nowhere to be found. It was obvious he was purposefully avoiding him, and after the first few days, Mickey stopped trying.

He holed up in his house, replaying the moments from the store, wishing he’d never gone looking for Ian. That he’d gone home after heading to the library and finding out Ian wasn’t scheduled.

Mandy was the one to find find Mickey curled up in his room. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, how long he’d been there. He blinked when she walked in, and was surprised to see the sun casting orange stripes on the floor. It was almost nighttime, somehow.

It was the closest he’d come to drifting in months. It was scary, feeling like he was losing control again, like he was coming untethered. He didn’t know how to stop it.

“Hey,” she said softly, eyeing his position squeezed against the wall between his bed and dresser. “Haven’t found you back here in a while.”

When Mickey didn’t respond, she sat down on the bed, watching him quietly for a moment. “The social worker’s here,” she said finally. “Said you have an appointment or some shit.” 

“I don’t want to go to therapy today,” Mickey told the wall behind the kitchen table.

Vicky stood beside him, thoughtfully silent for a beat or two. She touched his shoulder, and Mickey looked up at her in surprise. “Did something happen?” she asked gently.

“No,” Mickey lied, grudgingly.

“Well. Okay. But even if something _had_ happened—”

“Nothing happened, I just said.”

“—but, if it _did_ , I would say, as your social worker, that the whole point of a treatment plan is that you do it even if you don’t want to.”

Mickey opened his mouth to argue. The urge to fight, to bring out his claws and _attack_ , was so automatic it was almost easier to sit back and let it take over. 

At the last second though, a soft, unexpected thought tripped through his head. At first he didn’t even realize it was a thought, it was so odd. But then he listened to it, and went still in surprise.

The thought was—he _wanted_ to tell Dr. Tran what had happened with Ian. He thought Dr. Tran would listen. That was his whole job, wasn’t it? 

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Vicky seemed surprised. She squeezed his shoulder, bending to peer into his face. “Really? Okay?”

“I just said okay, didn’t I?” Mickey snapped back, and for some reason that made Vicky smile.

The drive to therapy was quiet, Vicky mercifully refraining from trying to get Mickey to talk, Mickey glaring mutinously out the car window. He didn’t even bother saying hello to the receptionist after Vicky dropped him off, trudging through the open door to Dr. Tran’s office with his fists clenched.

Dr. Tran watched him enter in bemusement, and Mickey threw himself onto the couch. Silence reigned for a moment. Dr. Tran seemed in no hurry to rush the session along. Mickey sullenly thought he should’ve put up more of a fight with Vicky. At least that way he’d still be safe, at home, in the closed corner by his bed.

“Do you want to draw today?” Dr. Tran asked, finally.

Mickey automatically opened his mouth to say yes. He wouldn’t have to talk, or explain anything to the therapist. It would be easy to draw. Uncomplicated. 

But he heard himself say, “No.”

Dr. Tran looked surprised, but not upset. “Well. What do you want to do instead?”

“I wanted to kill someone,” he said in a rush. It wasn’t an exaggeration. If Ian hadn’t been there, hadn’t stopped him, he had no doubt he would’ve kept coming back again and again until Ian’s boss was nothing but rags on the floor.

Dr. Tran sat up straighter in his chair, his face serious. “Mickey, I just want to remind you that you’re a minor, and as such, I have to report any serious crimes that come up in therapy. So I’ll ask—is there anything specific you want to tell me?” 

When Mickey remained silent, Dr. Tran sighed. “What I mean is—we can talk about whatever you want. But as long as no one is…dead. We should stick to your feelings, okay? Help me out here, Mick.”

Mickey nodded, considering. His mouth twisted as he thought it through, and then he allowed, “I lost my temper. I felt—out of control.”

“That must’ve been scary.”

“It wasn’t.” At Dr. Tran’s subtle eyebrow raise, Mickey shrugged. “It feels easy, being angry. It’s like my body takes control and I don’t have to think.” But he thought of the naked fear on Ian’s face, like he was looking at a stranger, and felt compelled to clarify, “Ian was scared, though." 

Dr. Tran made a considering noise at that. Mickey had mentioned Ian a few times, usually when they were going over his drawings while Mickey narrated as best he could the meaning behind what he had created. Sometimes they weren’t just memories, or scraps of memories that he could piece together. Sometimes he drew things that were happening in his life now, and usually, Ian popped up a lot in those.

“That makes sense, right? Ian's a different person, with different experiences.” Dr. Tran leaned back to stretch in his chair, and Mickey felt calmer as he watched. When Dr. Tran settled, he went on, voice thoughtful. “Do you think the things that scare you scare other people?”

“No.” Mickey was afraid of things he couldn’t even remember. He was afraid of waking up and having everything that had happened since April turn into another hallucination. He was afraid that he’d never be better, ever again.

“What did you do when Ian got scared?” 

“I left.” He’d walked by Ian’s house later that night, and considered breaking into the kitchen again, creeping upstairs, looking at Ian sleeping quietly in his bed. He’d stopped himself at the last minute though, and forced his feet to take him back home. “I don’t think he wants to see me.” 

“Do you want to see him?”

“Not if he’s afraid of me.”

He couldn’t say the rest, because even though Ian wasn’t hear and would never know about it, it still felt like a betrayal to tell Dr. Tran too much. But Mickey _felt_ betrayed. He felt like Ian had told him Mickey could trust him, and then had gotten scared and taken that away. He felt stupid for trusting him, for thinking he could. For believing him.

“Well, for now we could talk about some calming exercises.” The therapist came around from his desk to sit on the couch beside Mickey, all of his movements slow and thoughtful, nothing too sudden, like he didn’t want to spook Mickey. Mickey was grudgingly appreciative of that. “Some kids who have been through what you have—not exactly what you have, of course, but similar neglect—they rock, or tap things, or do other physical exercises, over and over. It helps them stay calm.”

“I used to rock.” Mickey remembered that night in the kitchen, when he heard his dad’s words and was transported back into murky memories, and rocking until he felt calm again.

“Not anymore?”

“I’m not a freak.”

Dr. Tran smiled at that, obviously amused, and Mickey rolled his eyes. “I mean—I don’t want _to be_ a freak. I want to be normal.”

“Fair enough,” Dr. Tran said. “What do you think might help you from getting angry? It would have to be something easy to remember and do, but enough to bring you back. Any ideas?"

He sat back, letting Mickey consider. Mickey squeezed his hands into fists as he thought, tension creeping up his arms into his neck and shoulders. He couldn’t think of any magical habit that would help. He didn’t realize he was making fists until he saw Dr. Tran looking down in interest. 

“Do you always do that when you’re upset?” he asked.

Mickey looked down in surprise, focusing on relaxing his hands so they weren’t fists anymore. It took some effort, and they still were half-curled. “No. I don’t know.”

Dr. Tran held his hand out. “Can I?” When Mickey nodded warily, he took Mickey’s hands into his own, lightly circling the wrists and bringing the fists together. As they both watched, Mickey’s hands unfurled until they were palm to palm, the fingers still bent so neither hand was completely flat.

“Try keeping them flat against each other, even when they want to go into fists,” the therapist suggested.

It was difficult. His palms were pressing tightly together, the fingers curling in. He was breathing harder, fighting to keep them flat together. The longer he worked at it, though, the less tension he felt in his hands, and eventually in his whole body. Like he was giving up, or his hands were at least. He wondered if it would help, if it would make him feel calmer in moments like at the store, when all he wanted to do was attack.

When he looked up, Dr. Tran was studying his hands quietly. “It might be hard to ever know for sure, but maybe the reflex of making a fist is something you did while you were being kept. To calm yourself down.” 

Mickey felt comforted by even the theory that someone else didn’t make his hands this way. That he’d done it, himself, to _protect_ himself.

Dr. Tran smiled at Mickey. “Maybe now, you just have to relearn how to hold them open instead. It probably won’t be that simple of a fix, but try it this week."

As Mickey flexed his hands, watched the way they moved as he held the palms together, Dr. Tran went back to his desk. When Mickey looked up, he looked sympathetic. “You can’t control how Ian feels, or what scares him. I want you to work on controlling yourself, or at least learning how to try. It’s a start, right?”

When he left the appointment, Mickey still felt mildly bleak about things with Ian, but not quite as helpless. Maybe if he learned to control himself, he wouldn’t scare Ian anymore. Maybe he could get Ian to trust him again. He didn’t know how he’d make himself trust Ian in return, though, but he hushed that thought up.

That was a concern for some other time. If Ian would just come talk to him, at least.

 

***

 

Ian sat listlessly in the kitchen, staring at a turkey sandwich he’d made himself. He wasn’t hungry, but making it had kept him busy for a few minutes. Now that he wasn’t working at the Kash N Grab, he had some time on his hands. Time to think about what had happened, and to feel increasingly guilty about avoiding Mickey. 

Things could be going a lot better, he admitted morosely to himself. 

Lip walked into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway at the sight of Ian. Ian watched him turn around to peer up the stairs, then scan the kitchen more thoroughly before resettling back on Ian.

“Where’s your shadow?” he asked, throwing himself onto a free kitchen chair.

“Not here,” Ian muttered. “ _Obviously_.”

“Hey, don’t get salty with me just because you’re fighting with your boyfriend,” Lip said. He bent to dig through his backpack, pulling out a shabby Calculus textbook.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Ian tried his best not to cross his arms over his chest, knowing Lip would just make fun of him for pouting. It was difficult, but he managed.

Lip gave him a dry look. “I really, really don’t care what you weirdos are labeling yourselves.” He flipped through the book and settled on a page filled with scribbled notes along the problem sets. He looked ready to dive in, but then he paused, sighed, and put his pencil back down. He sighed at Ian. “Alright. You get five minutes. Go.”

“What? There’s nothing to talk about,” Ian protested, but Lip cut him off.

“Come on. You’re obviously stewing, and you’ve got that weird pouty chin thing going on, and you’ve been mopey all week, so either you tell me now and I can get this fucking homework done, or you let it fester by yourself and I still get my fucking homework done. Your call, dude. Doesn’t matter to me.”

“You’re such a dick,” Ian grumbled, but when Lip just raised his eyebrows expectantly, he exhaled noisily. “ _Fine_.” Ian picked at the seam in his jeans as he spoke. “I quit working at the Kash N Grab a few months ago, you know?”

“Yeah, I noticed. Probably a good idea, right? I mean, you broke up with that freaking ephebophile, right?”

Ian made a face at what he had to assume was just yet another deliberately obscure Lip vocabulary word. “Ephebophile?”

“Yeah, it’s someone who’s into teenagers, not kids—whatever. It doesn’t matter. You told me Mickey wasn’t into you messing around with the dude from Lolita anymore, and you ended it, right?” 

Ian mentally shook himself, giving up on trying to follow Lip’s references, and nodded. “But then Kash kind of fired me.” 

For a moment, Lip looked stunned to silence. “He did _what_?” 

“Well, I stopped getting called in, and Linda said they got someone to replace me,” Ian said, wincing at Lip’s thunderous expression. 

“They can’t do that, Ian,” Lip said, picking up steam as his rant built, “that’s fucking illegal, that’s fucking _sexual harassment_ , frankly, I mean—” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Ian insisted, “Linda called me a few weeks ago and offered me my job back.” He shrugged. “So I’ve been picking up some extra shifts. That’s why I’ve been so busy.” 

Now Lip just looked confused, which was an unexpected look for him. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I?” Ian couldn’t help but argue back. “It was good money. I’m adding twice as much to the squirrel fund.” Lip started shaking his head, and Ian added stubbornly, “And you just said it was fucked up he tried to fire me in the first place. Why should I just slink away when he was being the asshole?” 

Ian thought he’d made some pretty airtight points and took a moment to bask in the satisfaction that he seemed to have struck Lip silent. That didn’t happen often. Usually Lip just wore Ian down with sheer tenacity, but now he was just watching Ian, face frozen in a frown. 

Then he sat up. “You little shit,” Lip said softly, like something had dawned on him, “you just wanted to win the breakup.” He rubbed his hands over his face in frustration. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Ian shot back, because that wasn’t _true_ , sure he wanted to show Kash that it didn’t matter that he’d tried to punish Ian, and sure maybe he liked that even as Kash tried to torture him further by hitting on Jaime right in front of him all day Ian could be sit in defiant example that it didn’t matter, it couldn’t hurt him. “It was good money, Lip.”

“Sure,” Lip said, “sure, I bet it was, and you definitely told Mickey that was the reason, right?” 

Ian sat silently, his throat working uselessly on a retort. 

Lip barked out a laugh. “Of course you didn’t. You probably just let him stumble onto it on your own, even after you promised him you wouldn’t work with that asshole again, right?”

“I didn’t promise him I wouldn’t work there.” Ian knew he was splitting hairs, but still, it was important, he thought, it made _sense_. “I told him I would break up with him.” Out in the open, it sounded like a weak distinction, even to Ian’s ears, now.

Lip opened his mouth, obviously annoyed, when Fiona walked in.

“Break up with who, Ian?” she asked cheerfully as she joined them, Liam on her hip. She bounced the baby for a minute, making him smile, then put him in the high chair. “What are you two talking about?” 

“Did you…you didn’t break up with Mickey, did you?” she asked carefully, silently acknowledging the big gay elephant in the room.

Ian was surprised by how not nervous the whole reveal felt. He didn’t feel sick to his stomach. Maybe he was still in residual shock from what had happened with Kash and Mickey at the store. Whatever it was, he couldn’t muster up any extra nerves.

Fiona smiled tentatively at him, a corner of her mouth lifting up. Like she was saying, _Trust me, please. It’s okay. Just tell me._ Ian smiled back, somewhat shakily.

Never one to miss a chance to ruin a moment, Lip interrupted flatly, “No, we were talking about his other weirdly codependent relationship.”

“It’s not _weird_ , Mickey and me aren’t _weird_ ,” Ian protested, but Lip just rolled his eyes.

“So who were you weird with before Mickey?” Fiona asked, clueless.

Ian swallowed. It was one thing telling Lip about his illicit fucking around with Kash. It was another to tell Fiona, who had always been more like a mother then a sister. He looked down as he said, “I was kind of…with Kash.”

Fiona’s face screwed up. “What? With him how?” She sounded puzzled, like Ian was peppering the conversation with a language she didn’t understand. 

“Back before Mickey, I was—” Ian tried, and stumbled. “You know, the Kash N Grab? My boss?”

“I know he’s your boss,” Fiona said, waving a hand impatiently as she reached with the other for the baby food deep in the back of the fridge. She straightened. “But who were you dating that you broke up with?”

“He _was_ my boss.” It felt weird, saying it out loud like that. It made it sound illicit, and shameful in a way Ian hated to think of it as.

“Wait, I thought you just worked at the library now?” Fiona frowned as she unscrewed the lid to the jar. “Maybe I’m confused.”

“Well, it’s not confusing anymore. Mickey freaked out and tried to kill Kash.” 

Fiona froze. “Holy shit, _what_?” She sat down at the table, baby food forgotten for the moment in her hand. Liam reached out a hand pleadingly for it, but Fiona didn’t notice. She was too invested in the story now. “Why would he do that?” 

“Because I used to be dating Kash,” Ian said. “I mean, I think that’s why. Who knows. I don’t know.” 

Lip looked testily at Ian. “Or maybe he just had a normal, visceral reaction to seeing you around some asshole who gets off on screwing underage boys and then _firing_ them when they don’t want to anymore.” 

“But Kash—he is, he _was_ , your boss.” Fiona’s mouth twisted. “And he’s _old_.” Then, as she caught up with Lip, “Wait, he _fired_ you? Because you didn’t want to…be with him, anymore?”

Ian rubbed his face wearily. “Yes.”

“And he’s _married_.” Fiona looked at Ian, eyes narrowing. “He is old and married and your boss and I would think you’d know better than _that_ , Ian _Clayton_ Gallagher.” 

To Ian’s eternal surprise, it was Lip who jumped in. “Let’s try not to spin out, here,” he said, “Kash is the predator, not Ian. Ian’s just an idiot.” 

“Hey, fuck you, Lip,” Ian grumbled, and Lip and Fiona just rolled their eyes.

“And besides, that wasn’t what’s had him writing angsty poetry in his room all day—”

“I’m not writing poetry, _fuck you_ , Lip—” 

“—it’s apparently the fact that in the process of returning to work at the store after being fired, Mickey found out Ian was lying to him and melted down, and now they’re broken up or whatever it is that happens when two doofuses who don’t consider themselves boyfriends get in a fight, and one of them is an overdramatic doofus who keeps secrets all the time and then gets huffy when shit gets real.” Lip glared meaningfully at Ian, then rolled his eyes. “And that’s what you missed on _As The Ian Turns_.”

“Huh,” Fiona murmured, leaning back in her seat. Then she smiled slyly. “Wait, I have a better one: _All My Ians_.” She giggled to herself. 

“ _Days of Our Ians_ ,” Lip suggested, grinning.

Ian threw his head back and groaned. “I’m so glad this is all so fucking hilarious to you both, goddamnit.” 

“It’s not our fault your life is a fucking soap opera,” Lip shot back, and Ian made to leave, still feeling too bruised and upset to take much more teasing from his siblings.

“Hey, wait,” Fiona said, grabbing his arm before he could storm off. “Cool it for a second. I’m sorry, it’s just—you never tell me anything. This is just kind of—new. I’m absorbing. Let me drink it all in, okay?”

She waited for Ian to nod, grudgingly, and then she sat back. She looked down and saw the baby food forgotten on the table, and then over at Liam, who was making grabby hands pathetically. Fiona shook her head, smiling. “Oh relax, you’re not going to starve to death.” She scooped out a spoonful of mushed apples and started feeding him. 

“So what happened with Mickey?” she asked after Liam was contentedly swallowing his mush.

“He got pissed. Because Ian’s a liar," Lip said promptly. His expression was so haughty and all-knowing Ian wanted to smack it off his face, but he resisted. Barely.

“I’m not a liar! And I wasn’t lying. Not—it’s more complicated than that.” Ian gave in and crossed his arms over his chest. It felt satisfying. “I told him I wasn’t going to—once we started—I broke up with Kash. Mickey wanted me to.”

“And you wanted to, too, right?” Fiona looked worried again. She was taking the knowledge that Ian had been sleeping with his adult boss remarkably in stride, but the frown lines were still there, like she was being careful not to scare Ian off.

“Yeah,” Ian replied. “Once I met Mickey—I thought me and Kash were good, you know? It was fun.” He pointedly ignored Lip making a sound in his throat like he was going to vomit. “But then I started hanging out with Mickey, and it was like.” He looked down at his lap, flushing. He could barely unwind the complexity of his feelings for Mickey, let alone putting it into a few simple words. 

Finally, he settled on, “It was like I couldn’t even remember why I’d started messing around with Kash in the first place. I only wanted to be with Mickey.”

“Sounds like love, kiddo,” Fiona said, shrugging almost sadly. 

Lip flailed a little in his chair. “Oh my god, can we _not_? Ian’s doesn’t—he’s too fucking young—this is beside the point.” He pointed at Ian. “So Mickey flipped out and broke up with you.” 

Ian overcame the urge to remind Lip that he was only a year older by remembering the shocked look on Mickey’s face as Ian backed away in fear. “Not really. I—I kind of. I told him—it was me. I told him to go home, and I haven't seen him yet.”

Fiona and Lip shared a look, which just pissed Ian off more. “What? How is that my fault—Kash could’ve called the cops!”

Fiona winced. “And you’re just kind of letting Mickey hang there?” She shook her head sadly. “That’s no good, Ian. Especially with all he’s been through. Have you told Mandy?”

“No!” Ian screwed up his face at the very thought.

Mandy barely tolerated them being together. He was pretty sure she’d hand him his ass for abandoning Mickey because he’d tried—fuck, after he’d tried to fucking kill Kash.

But now, with Lip and Fiona watching him, he felt guiltier than ever. He just wanted some space to breathe. Instead, he'd disappeared on Mickey for nearly two weeks.

He considered just getting up right now and marching over to the Milkovich house. Sitting down with Mickey and asking him what was going on. He didn’t, though. He felt confused.

“Do you think you might be,” Fiona said tentatively, wiping Liam’s face clean while she paused, then blurting, “I don’t know, in a little over your head with all of this?” 

Ian let out a short, nearly hysterical laugh. “Oh my god, yes,” he said, bleakly, “all the time. Trust me, I’m _aware_.”

“So maybe take a minute, sweetheart,” Fiona suggested. She rubbed Ian’s head like she used to do when Ian was little, probably making his hair all fuzzy. He swatted her hand away half-heartedly.

“That’s not fair to Mickey, though,” Ian argued, even though it wasn’t lost on him that that was essentially what he was doing already.

Lip made a frustrated sound in the back of throat. “Jesus, then _make the call_ , smartass! Either cut him loose or stop being such a pussy and go talk to him, make some big grand gesture, but _either way_ ,” and here Lip flipped open his textbook firmly, “I have homework, and you’re getting tears all over the kitchen table.”

Ian made a face, but he was already miles away. Lip was right. He was being a coward. He stood up, already headed toward the door. He was headed to the Milkovich house after all, but first, if he wanted to make some big grand gesture, he needed to make a pit stop.

 

***

 

Mickey still missed Ian, but he was doing his best to distract himself. It felt important, somehow, that he wait this one out. That he focus on other things, on other parts of his life. It was kind of amazing that he had that, now. A life to focus on. 

He’d had time to think about it, and talking to Dr. Tran had helped. Now, he couldn’t say he was sorry that he’d attacked Kash. He'd been roughing Ian up and the guy was a disgusting old man who slept with kids. If it wouldn't make everything worse, Mickey wished he could go back and finish tearing the guy apart. But, he could admit that he regretted freaking Ian out. It didn’t mean Mickey was out of control, though. Now Mickey just had to prove it.

He threw himself into reading, and filling out his worksheets from Ben. Ben, normally so exuberantly like a gangly puppy, had even toned it down when he saw Mickey’s bad mood this weak, and assigned him The Catcher In The Rye. Mickey thought the narrator was an unstoppable whiner, but in a way he found unfortunately relatable at the moment.

He was in the living room, after Mandy shooed him out of his room and told him to stop being a hermit. She hadn’t asked about things with Ian specifically, but Mickey could tell something was wrong. She hadn’t mentioned Ian in the last few weeks, and she’d been gently hovering. Even Iggy had been shooting him concerned looks, while Colin and Joey, never independently chatty, had taken to bumping shoulders with him casually whenever they passed. Even Joey's naps seemed to be more fitful. It was like his whole family was worried about him.

It was kind of nice, actually.

Outside, snow had begun to fall. Mandy, home all day on winter break and using her new spare time to boss all of her brothers with renewed spirit, had wrapped him in an old ratty afghan even though he’d protested he wasn’t cold. Iggy and Colin were arguing about something to do with drugs, and as Mickey read, he held his palms together in his lap, pressing the fingers flat and resisting the instinctual draw to curl them into fists. It was getting easier, he noticed with pride. It made him feel centered. Calm.

There was a hard rap at the door. Everyone in the living room went still. There had been no word from Terry. Mickey’s brothers seemed wound tight, like they expected him to appear at any moment, but were reluctant for that moment to occur.

Mandy came bustling out of the kitchen and threw open the door. Mickey didn’t hear his dad’s voice and relaxed minutely. Mandy did not.

“It’s you,” she said flatly to whoever was at the door. 

That made Mickey curious. He twisted around in his chair, trying to see, but Mandy blocked the doorway. 

“Is Mickey here?”

At the sound of Ian’s voice, Mickey’s chest felt like it was seizing in shock. His knees jerked, knocking the book onto the ground. He pressed his hands flat together as hard as he could, going rigid enough that even Iggy noticed 

“You cool, man?” he asked, eyebrows high, but Mickey couldn’t answer. He was too focused on the terse conversation taking place at the door.

“What do you want, Ian?” Mandy demanded.

“I just need to see him, Mandy.”

“You can’t just drop off the face of the earth like that,” she insisted.

Ian made a protesting sound. “I have something for him. It’s an early Christmas present.” Despite himself, Mickey felt himself perk up. He couldn’t remember the last Christmas present he’d gotten. His siblings and him hadn’t planned anything for Christmas. This would probably be his only present.

But Mandy seemed loathe to move away from the door, like she was protecting Mickey bodily from harm. Mickey wanted to tell her it wasn’t necessary, but it still felt nice, being protected. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t been around,” she said hotly. “You’ve been ignoring my calls, and Mickey’s been alone in his room all the time. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it is, it’s fucked up for you to just disappear.”

“I know,” Ian said, and he sounded chagrined.

There was a long, hard pause, and then Mandy turned to look at Mickey behind her. “What do you think?” she asked him. “It’s up to you.”

Mickey pressed his palms together, the pressure grounding him, and nodded.

Ian stepped into the Milkovich house, looking tousled and snow-covered and most comforting of all, nervous, and Mickey gave him a tentative smile.

He’d missed him. Just the sight of his stupid, bright hair made the back of Mickey’s neck hot.

“Hey, Mick,” Ian said, smiling crookedly. He moved toward the recliner, and on the couch, Iggy reached forward to mute the TV with an audible click, both Iggy and Colin turning unashamedly to watch the proceedings. 

Mickey could tell Ian would love to have this conversation in private, but judging by the nosy looks on his siblings' faces, it wasn’t worth it. Ian came to stand over the recliner, looking down at Mickey.

“Hey,” he said again. He blushed lightly, embarrassed by their audience, but pushing on regardless it seemed. “I missed you.”

Mickey nodded, words caught in his throat. He saw a small card in Ian’s hands as he came to stand beside Mickey’s recliner. He took a steadying breath and met Mickey’s eyes. On his end, Mickey took a breath and held it. Maybe this was the end.

“You can’t attack people like that,” Ian said. 

“Who’d he attack?” Mandy asked, nonplussed. Iggy shushed her loudly, intent on the drama. 

Ian ignored them both, gaze intent on Mickey. “It’s dangerous, when you do stuff like that, with your dad and with Kash.” When Mickey made a face, Ian shook his head. “Not for Kash, for _you_ , you dickhead.”  
  
“Isn’t Kash that weird dude who owns the store?” Colin muttered to Iggy, who shrugged, riveted on the conversation before him.

Ian perched on the arm of the recliner, looking down imploringly at Mickey. “I’m sorry I ran away. And that I didn’t tell you I was still working there, and just.” He breathed out gustily. “I know I’m bad about keeping secrets. It’s stupid. I’m going to try harder to be honest. I’m still…learning this shit.”

He huffed out a self-conscious laugh, picking at a seam on the recliner. Mickey stared at his long fingers, the way they toyed with the material, and heard Ian say, “This is my first honest-to-god….relationship, I guess? I know I kind of suck at it.” 

In all the iterations of this showdown, Ian apologizing unreservedly was not what Mickey had predicted. He stayed silent in surprise, and Ian fumbled for the card in his hand. 

“Here,” he said lamely, holding it out. 

Mickey took it cautiously and tore open the flap. A thick laminated card fell out. It had his name and address on it, and as he peered at it, he realized what it was.

“Is that a fucking library card?” Iggy whispered, obviously disgusted by the nerdery.

Mickey, however, felt like the bottom was dropping out of his world. “Is this—did you get me this so I don’t have to come with you to the library anymore?” His nose was burning, but as he watched, Ian’s eyes went wide in horrified surprise. 

“No! Oh my god, _no_. I just wanted—it’s just, you like to read so much! And now you don’t have to depend on me or Mandy, but I still _want_ you there. I didn’t—fuck.” 

There wasn’t much room on the recliner, but Ian stumbled in his haste to sit next to Mickey. It was tight, but Ian seemed content to curl his legs up so they draped over Mickey’s lap, mostly dwarfing him, not that Mickey minded. It felt nice, the contact, after several weeks of strained radio silence.

Iggy snickered. “Nice recovery.” He made an oof sound when Mandy punched him in the stomach to shut up. 

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry,” Ian said once he was settled in close, his voice a whisper.

Mickey rolled his eyes, letting his hands rest gently on Ian’s bony knees. “Stop saying that,” he said, annoyed. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I fucked up, and I’m dealing with it, and if you have a problem with that—well, I get it, I guess.”

“Okay?” Ian said, confused.

“I’m just saying—you’re not responsible for me.” Mickey let that sink in, not just for Ian but for Mickey too. It felt like something Dr. Tran would say. It felt right. “I don’t want to lose control like that anymore. I’m trying not to.” He looked down, pulling at a loose string on Ian’s jeans, the denim still cold from the snowy outdoors. “Just…don’t disappear again, okay?”

Ian tipped his head so it rested against Mickey’s temple. They sighed together. “Okay.”

“And I think that’s as much boy love as I can take,” Colin said, turning away.

“We barely did anything,” Mickey protested, but Colin turned the TV up high so he and Iggy could get back to sports.

Beside him, Ian hunched his shoulders. He pressed a quick, fleeting kiss to Mickey's cheek, to the vocal disdain of Colin and Iggy. “How are you?” he whispered. Even surrounded by Mickey’s siblings, it felt like it was just the two of them.

“Better now,” Mickey admitted, and let himself wedge an arm behind Ian’s back and hug him, ignoring the tight discomfort of their position on the recliner for now.

Just as they were settling into the chair together, there was another knock at the door. 

“Get the door,” Mandy said, smacking Iggy. He grumbled but obeyed. 

“We’re fucking popular as shit tonight,” Iggy said, dragging himself off the couch. When he opened the door, Vicky came striding in. She stopped when she saw Ian and Mickey curled together on the recliner, tilting her head. Mickey realized this was the first time she’d seen Ian. She looked deeply curious, but she was out of breath and her eyes didn’t stay resting on Ian for long. She looked at Mickey, then Mandy and their brothers—even Joey had roused himself from where he snoozed on the couch corner, all watching her expectantly.

She looked frazzled, uncharacteristically frazzled, in fact. She chewed on her bottom lip.

“What’s wrong?” Mickey demanded after a while, unable to stand it anymore. 

Setting her briefcase on the floor, Vicky came over to stand by the recliner. She looked at Ian. “Social worker,” she told him, by way of introduction.

Ian tilted his head to look up at her. “Um. Boyfriend?” He looked at Mickey, who shrugged. Sounded like as good a label as any. 

Vicky nodded, taking that in, then sighed, looking nervous, like she had bad news but she was dreading letting it loose.

“Jesus, just say it,” Mickey demanded. The suspense was getting kind of ridiculous, and all he wanted to do anyway was cuddle up with Ian like a big dumb nerd for a while.

“It’s your dad,” Vicky blurted out. “He’s in jail. He wouldn’t give any information and didn’t want to use a phone call, but my office was notified through the pipeline.”

“Oh,” Mickey said, working his way through her hurried pronouncement. It wasn't unexpected news, especially because he’d been absent for nearing two months, but it wasn’t _surprising_. Terry was a frequent flyer in the metal motel. 

“So the fuck what?” Iggy asked, crossing his arms belligerently. Mickey could tell he was worried, that this, on top of how out of it Terry had been when they’d caught up with him in Wisconsin, probably was not a terrific sign. Iggy seemed unwilling to show any of that to Vicky, however.

“He was arrested for murder,” Vicky said. Iggy swore, and Colin sucked in a breath. That was much more serious.

“What?” Mickey asked, because that was new, at least. “Where is he?”

Vicky took a breath, looking away. She scanned the room, before settling on Mickey, her eyes dark and sad-looking in her tense face.

“He's in Indiana," she said. "They think he found the people who took you. And killed them.”

 

*** 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 9 should be up tomorrow by 5 p.m. CST. Thanks for your patience and support! <3
> 
> Tumblrrrrrr: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobic language, references to past child abuse/negelect.

 ***

 

**January**

 

***

 

It was New Year’s Eve, and Ian was watching Mickey watch fireworks. He thought that he could maybe watch Mickey watch fireworks for the rest of his life. Mickey looked gorgeous when he was amazed. It was mesmerizing.

From the top of the abandoned building, they could just see the fireworks being set off near the highway. If Ian had to guess, he’d say they were coming from the South Shore, but he couldn’t really tell, and honestly, he was far more interested in the absorbed, arrested expression on Mickey’s face than who was setting off the fireworks specifically. 

Behind them, Ian could hear Fiona and Lip corralling the younger kids, while Mickey’s brothers got high near the back of the roof. Ian didn’t need to turn around and look to know Mandy was eyeing Lip speculatively, and Ian didn’t have the heart to tell her that Karen would probably show up before the end of the night.

Ian hadn’t planned to invite his whole family, or Mickey’s whole family either, to their special spot on the roof of the building. It had all kind of happened, Fiona suggesting it after Mickey and Mandy came over for an early dinner of leftover mostaccioli Fiona had liberated from her shift at the hotel restaurant she moonlighted at. 

Then Mandy had suggested bringing Iggy and the other Milkovich brothers along. Ian wasn’t entirely up to speed on what had gone down between the Milkovich siblings, but Mandy seemed determined to throw Mickey and Iggy together as much as possible, apparently hoping familiarity would breed ease rather than contempt. 

Mickey didn’t seem to visibly mind the extra additions to their night, though, and so the entire group had trooped to the highest point they could think of to get a three-sixty view of the fireworks

Which turned out to be the roof of the abandoned building.

“It’s so bright,” Mickey murmured. He leaned a little more against Ian, and Ian, doing his best to ignore the raucous sounds of his family and Mickey’s behind him, grabbed his hand and held it with both of his in his lap.

Beside Mickey, Iggy dropped down unexpectedly, pot-clumsy and smiley. “Dad fucking loves fireworks too,” he said loopily. 

Mickey didn’t answer, and Ian squeezed his hand tighter.

On Ian’s side, Mandy sat down, kicking her legs over the side of the building. She knocked Ian with her shoulder, then glared at Iggy. “Well, _fuck_ Dad.”

“Fuck _you_ ,” Iggy retorted, giggling to himself.

“I came for the fireworks, but I think I’ll stay for the witty dialogue,” Lip called out. There was the sound of a scuffle. “Carl, no bottle rockets, we’re watching _actual_ fireworks, why do you need to add your own?”

Ian barely heard any of it, letting it wash over him, focusing on pulling Mickey closer, trying to keep him warm through his thin coat even though the cold didn't seem to bother Mickey. The rest of them were shivering but Mickey didn’t seem to feel it. Ian thought maybe he didn’t feel hot or cold the same as they did anymore, like he’d built up a tolerance.

More than anything, he wanted to talk to Mickey about his dad. Since the social worker had dropped the bomb of Terry’s arrest, Mickey had been stubbornly pretending like nothing had changed.

If Terry had found the guys who had kept Mickey, then Terry might know more about what had happened, and maybe that would help Mickey. Maybe it would help Ian, too, if he knew more about what he was up against. If he knew the best way to calm Mickey down when he lost control, like with Kash.

The fight with Kash popped into Ian’s mind frequently enough, like a harbinger reminding Ian that something darker was hiding in Mickey, that he had experienced things Ian could barely imagine and could't predict, and it made Ian feel helpless to prevent it from happening again.

Mickey gasped as the finale went off, a blinding series of cracks and lights as everything went off at once. Fiona whooped, chattering to Liam about the colors in the sky, and Debbie and Carl argued about which ones were better, the fireworks that made shapes or the fireworks that sparkled and made noise.

When it was over, Fiona roused Carl and Debbie, and when Ian turned around, he could see Liam was conked out on her shoulder. “Time to get home to bed,” she told them, to Carl and Debbie’s vocal disgust. 

Lip sidled up to Mandy, crouching down to whisper confidentially, “I bet we can get Kev to give us some free drinks at the Alibi.” Ian tried not to roll his eyes, and besides, Mandy looked thrilled to be included. He couldn't ruin it for her.

Iggy stood up, swaying only slightly. “Shit yeah, let’s get white girl wasted for the new year.” Joey and Colin stumbled over from where they’d been huddled getting high in the back. “You two losers coming?” Iggy asked.

Mickey gave him a look, then pointedly leaned into Ian.

“Okay, keep it in your pants til we’re off the roof,” Iggy muttered, but his disgust sounded more obligatory than anything, and soon, Ian and Mickey were alone on the roof.

“Happy almost-New Year,” Ian said into the sudden quiet. 

Mickey didn’t respond. He seemed distracted, staring out into the sky now dark and free of fireworks. Ian kicked his feet out, waiting patiently, but he started to worry at Mickey’s pensive silence.

“Hey, you doing okay?” Ian asked.

Mickey gave him a weird look. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He raised an eyebrow sarcastically. “Are _you_ doing okay?”

Ian rolled his eyes, getting to his feet and pulling Ian with him. He moved closer so Mickey was mostly protected from the wind picking up this high up from the ground, kicking softly at Mickey’s shoe. “I’m serious,” Ian said. “How are you doing with all the stuff—with Terry.”

It only happened for a split second, but Ian saw Mickey freeze. Then he looked up, smiling wryly. “Well, he’s in fucking jail. I’m doing _great_ with it.” 

He seemed to purposefully be leaving out the connection between Terry and the men he had killed, and how they were connected to Mickey. And Ian wanted to ask more, he knew he _should_ be asking more, but Mickey was looking at him challengingly but also like he was silently begging Ian to let it go, his cheeks bright red from the cold, his teeth chattering lightly. 

With a sigh, Ian darted forward, throwing an arm around Mickey’s neck and pulling him into a headlock. Mickey grunted and wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist in turn, bringing him to the ground so they tumbled together in a heap, rolling to a stop near the back wall.

“Fuck, man, my pants are all wet now,” Ian grumbled. The snow was mostly slush this deep in the building, and it was cold as balls. Detangling from Mickey, he pulled himself to his feet and then yanked Mickey up too. He looked at Mickey, unimpressed. 

“Don’t be such a whiner,” Mickey said, smiling, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Ian’s throat and dragging his lips down slowly.

“Whoa.” Ian jerked in surprise, stepping back and running into the wall. Mickey followed, crowding him up and latching on to Ian’s collarbone, sucking what was most likely going to be a mark into his skin. “Dude, it’s fucking freezing, we can’t do that out here.”

“I’ll warm you up,” Mickey promised, nipping playfully at the tip of Ian’s nose.

It was sweet, and Mickey was being cute as hell, but something about it felt forced. Like Mickey was determined to keep things dirty, not straying to anything too serious.

And in the face of Mickey's stubborn levity, Ian felt like an asshole. It wasn’t his job to force Mickey to deal with anything. He was dealing with enough. If he wanted to pretend like his dad getting arrested didn’t matter, than Ian would just fucking stay in his lane and deal with it.

He cupped Mickey’s face in both of his hands, staring into his eyes. Mickey blinked, his pupils dilating visibly.

Slowly, carefully, Ian pressed a soft kiss to his slightly open mouth. He meant it to be a short, sweet press of lips, but as soon as they connected, Mickey made a sound deep in his throat and leaned forward, looping his arms around Ian’s neck. Ian couldn’t help but kiss back, getting lost in the contact, forgetting the cold, forgetting everything but Mickey pressing eagerly against him, moving like he was desperate to forget everything too.

When Ian pulled away, Mickey was wide-eyed, panting. Ian was helpless not to lean down and kiss him one last time, but pulled back before Mickey could derail that one, too.

He tugged on Mickey’s cold hand. “Come on, let’s go someplace. I want to be warm and inside when I kiss you at midnight.”

“Such a sap,” Mickey groused, elbowing Ian in the side, but Ian could see his tiny smile as they stomped down the stairs together.   

They ended up back at the Milkovich house, empty for now of any Milkovich siblings. Unlike before, when the threat of Terry had hung over them both, Ian felt free to grope Mickey as they stumbled into the living room, giggling into each other’s open mouths as Ian walked them backward toward Mickey’s bedroom.

Despite his plans to kiss Mickey at midnight, Ian was barely aware of the time as they crashed onto Mickey’s bed. In the dim light of the empty house, Mickey looked young and small beneath Ian, smiling brightly, his teeth gleaming white.

It was probably an unspeakable relief to know his dad was locked up, regardless of the circumstances. Mickey seemed lighter, knowing he was gone for now. 

They were curled on their sides by now, and when Ian pulled back to catch his breath, he stared at Mickey, and marveled that he was there, whole and beside him, a small smile on his face peering back at Ian.

“I love you,” Ian whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it, and he blushed hotly, even though he meant it. 

Mickey’s eyebrows went high, then low, a frown working it’s way across his face.

“Sorry, I don’t want to make it weird, it’s just—I do.” Ian swallowed, moving closer so their knees bumped together. “I just wanted to tell you.” 

He thought maybe it was too much, that Mickey was weirded out, but then Mickey rolled forward, snaking his hand down Ian’s pants, groping him almost desperately as they rolled around on the bed, like he was trying to say the words back with his hands and his mouth and his body pressed to Ian’s. 

It was a rough handjob, the friction almost painful, but the sounds Mickey made distracted Ian from any discomfort. He grabbed on to Mickey’s ass, squeezing as he shoved his cock into Mickey’s fist, loving the feel of Mickey’s cock rutting back against him.

When he came, Ian bit Mickey’s nick right at the base, hard enough to bruise, and that seemed to send Mickey over the edge too. Blearily, Ian wondered if Mickey had even touched his own cock, or if he’d come just from jerking Ian off. It was a strangely romantic gesture, to Ian’s come-drunk brain at the moment at least.

As he rolled to the side, fucked out and already drifting, Mickey a warm weight curled around his side, he couldn’t be sure they’d come right at the stroke of midnight, but as he closed his eyes, he decided to believe they had.

 

***

 

Mickey knew Ian wanted to talk to him about his dad. Mickey even knew Ian was probably just trying to help. But the more he tried to bring it up, the more Mickey found himself bobbing and weaving, avoiding the whole thing. 

Which was hard to do, since everyone around him seemed to want nothing more than to talk about Terry, and who he’d apparently killed. Mickey’s brothers, Mandy, even Vicky kept bringing it up. Dr. Tran had mentioned mildly that he’d heard about the arrest, but when Mickey sternly ignored the overture, Dr. Tran seemed content to let it go for now. If only everyone else in his life was so flexible.

He wanted to remember things, and he wanted to know what had happened to him. But he wanted to do it on his own terms, and now Terry had forced the issue, diving in and tearing things so that Mickey couldn’t ignore it, like he always did, the worst fucking bull in the one china shop Mickey wished he would fucking avoid, for once.

The only person who didn’t want to talk to Mickey about his dad was Ben, and that was only because Ben didn’t know anything had happened. Mickey’s tutor remained cheerfully effervescent and unchained to the nonfictional world, a welcome constant in Mickey’s week. Ben hadn’t even taken his own winter break, too eager to work through the syllabus with Mickey, who was glad for the distraction.

“If we keep going at this rate, you might be able to take a placement test for summer school,” Ben said cheerfully one afternoon, the high school still silent with everyone away on break.

“I’d still need a tutor though, right?” Mickey asked. While he grudgingly accepted Ben’s enthusiasm most days, he’d grown used to his rhythms, and the safety of the routine. The thought of dropping all that and starting a whole new school regimen that summer made him immediately nervous.

Across the circular table in the teacher’s lounge, Ben smiled brightly. “Of course you will, buddy! It’s probably going to be a while before you get used to regular classes again, and besides, I like tutoring you.” He reached over to nudge clumsily at Mickey’s elbow, and although Mickey rolled his eyes and pulled his elbow away, he still felt calmer knowing Ben would be around for a while yet.

They were discussing the methods Holden Caulfield used to tell a story (Ben brought up a number of criticisms, and Mickey found himself getting defensive of Holden against Ben’s surprisingly snarky comments), and were so involved that they didn’t notice Vicky had walked in until she tapped Ben on the shoulder.

Ben jerked around with a loud “Ah!” noise, knocking the book and a stack of papers off the table.

Mickey resisted covering his face with his hands as Vicky tilted her head curiously, watching Ben flail. Mickey shook his head. The fucking goober.

“Um,” Vicky said, biting her lip like she was holding back a laugh. “I wanted to see if I could borrow Mickey for a second?” She gestured at Mickey, and Ben nodded vigorously, his head snapping on his neck. 

“Of course! You’re the boss! Whatever you need.” 

Mickey hauled himself to his feet. “Get it together, man,” he muttered to Ben, who frowned at him. “We can go talk in the hall," he said to Vicky.

Vicky shrugged. “Okay. I don’t want to take you from your tutoring for too long, I just wanted to talk to you.” Which couldn't be good, Mickey knew. He braced himself, following Vicky to the door. Ben turned his back to give them privacy, strenuously pretending not to gaze almost longingly at Vicky as he moved. Mickey sighed. Dude had no game. 

“If this is about my dad, I don’t—” Mickey started to say, but Vicky waved a hand.

“I know you want to ignore this, but I needed to tell you—I heard from your father’s public defender.” She touched Mickey’s shoulder gently, which made Mickey go still. She rarely touched him without permission, but right now she seemed too worried to notice. She took her hand back, fiddling with the edge of the folder in her hand, bending the corner back and forth, back and forth. “He got in touch with my office. He wants to see you. Just you.”

Mickey didn’t know what to say to that. Mickey didn’t really know what he was feeling, really, so he stayed silent. Vicky gave him a chance to respond, and when he didn’t, she went on.

“You don’t have to see him.” The corner of the folder made a quiet _whushing_ sound, back and forth, back and forth and Mickey stared at it rather than meet Vicky’s intense, concerned gaze. “After abandoning you for the last few months, not to mention your sister and your older brother who’s still under eighteen, Ignatius—” 

“It’s Iggy,” Mickey corrected mindlessly, knowing how much his brother hated his given name.

Vicky paused to smile. “I’m sorry. Iggy. After the way your dad ran off, I’ve been under some pressure to step in, potentially remove you from the home.”

“What?” Mickey felt his hands and feet get inexplicably hot, a panicked feeling rising in his chest. 

“I’ve been pushing back on that,” Vicky assured him. “You’ll be seventeen soon, and it’s my recommendation that ideally, you’d be emancipated rather than put in the system.” That sounded ideal to Mickey too, and he was about to say so, when Vicky made a face. “But, then you’d be a legal adult, and nearly all of the resources we’re dealing with now—tutoring, your therapy, any medical follow-ups in the future, those would be a lot harder to get for you if you’re no longer considered a minor by the state. But, your treatment plan could be interrupted by placing you in foster care, and it’s all—well, it’s gets complicated fast.” She laughed, more a sound of frustration than anything, and leaned against the wall, bending so she could more easily look Mickey in the face. “But I’m getting sidetracked. That’s not what I’m talking to you about today. What I want to know is if you want to go see your dad. It’s up to you.” 

There was a twinge of pressure in Mickey’s hands, and when he looked down, he realized he'd put them palm-together automatically. He felt the push of his hands trying to lock into fists, and then the answering push as they stayed flat. It felt good, stabilizing almost.

“What do you want to do?” When Mickey kept staring at his hands, Vicky asked, “Do you want to call Dr. Tran?”

It was enough of a out-of-left-field suggestion that Mickey looked up, eyes wide. He had never called Dr. Tran outside of office visits. He had his card, and Dr. Tran had encouraged him to contact him whenever he wanted. But Mickey didn’t even have a phone, and frankly, whenever he’d felt anxious before he’d holed up by himself, reading or drawing, calming himself down until he didn’t feel so overwhelmed anymore. It became a point of pride after a while—Mickey knew he might be fucked up, sure, but he could handle his own problems if he had to.

Except that wasn’t going to work this time. He could tell. He knew this was different.

“Yeah,” he said. Vicky’s face stayed carefully neutral, but he could tell he’d surprised her. He’d surprised himself, really, but the more he thought about it, Dr. Tran’s easy, calm voice in his ear, listening while Mickey talked, the more he wanted to do it. The more he thought it would make things easier.

Vicky handed him her phone, and a spare copy of Dr. Tran’s card. Mickey dialed the number and waited, feeling strangely nervous. 

“My dad’s in jail,” he blurted out as soon as Dr. Tran answered, his voice low and unsuspecting. Mickey felt a pressure in his chest instantly begin to ease.

“Mickey?” There was the sound of Dr. Tran settling into his chair, pushing a pile of papers away. “Is everything alright?” 

“My dad’s in jail,” Mickey repeated, even though Dr. Tran knew that already, and it made Mickey a little frustrated to have to repeat it again, clearly things were _not alright_ , he’d just covered that, “and he wants me to come see him.”

There was a pause as Dr. Tran seemed to drink that information in. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?” Mickey demanded. He always forgot how soothing and yet annoying Dr. Tran’s non-responses could be. There was no pressure, but right now, Mickey could use some pressure, in one direction or the other, maybe forcing him to make a decision.

“Okay, do you want to see him?”

“I don’t know.” Mickey bit his lip, and then he asked haltingly, “Should I see him?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“He wants to see me. He said he wanted to see me, not my brothers or Mandy or anybody else.”

“Did he?”

“But I just want to forget about him.”

“Do you?”

“But I don't think I can, even if I wanted to.” 

“Probably not.”

“I don’t trust him anymore.” 

“That’s understandable.”

“But…I want to…maybe if I see him, now, it might. Help?”

“It could offer some closure.”

“So I should go.”

“Unless you don’t want to go.”

“But if I don’t go, he’ll probably just keep asking.” 

“It would make sense to get it over with.”

Mickey nodded to himself, decided. “I’m going.”

Dr. Tran hummed, sounding pleased. “Okay. Glad I could help.”

There was a long silence as Mickey squinted suspiciously at the phone. “I don’t feel like you did anything,” he said dubiously.

“You’re probably right,” Dr. Tran said. He sounded cheerful about it, and for some reason, it made Mickey laugh. Sometimes it felt like maybe Dr. Tran wasn’t even there, like he was just Mickey's mirror, reflecting his own decisions back at him. Mickey didn’t know if that made him a good therapist or a bad one. He wasn’t sure he cared.

After another pause Mickey rolled his eyes. “Well, good talk,” he said. He tried to sound gruff, but he felt strangely settled, the decision out of his hands. He was going to see his dad. 

He said goodbye and handed the phone to Vicky. She put her hands on her hips. “So, looks like we’re going to Indiana, huh?”

“Can Ian come with?” Mickey’s voice came out impossibly small, and he hated it, but he couldn’t help it. He hunched his shoulders, wishing he could disappear into the floor and not have to deal with any of this. He couldn’t, though. And if he had to go to Indiana to see Terry, he wanted Ian there too.

“Whatever you need,” Vicky assured him. She touched his shoulder again, then seemed to realize she was doing it and pulled her hand back, chagrinned. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Mickey shook his head. “It’s fine.” And it was. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but he trusted Vicky, now. It felt good, having another person in his corner. 

She smiled ruefully at him, ruffling up his hair. “Get back to class,” she said.

She nudged him back toward Ben, and eventually Mickey went, his hands twisting with nerves. He tried to get back into talking with Ben about the book, but the whole time his dad’s face kept rising, again and again in his mind, like a steadily-looking menace.

  

***

 

Ian was picking up extra shifts at the library now that he was officially done with the Kash N Grab, and on days when Mickey had tutoring or therapy, Mandy kept him company while he stacked shelves. 

The librarians were significantly less tolerant of Mandy than of Mickey, which Ian found weirdly unfair. When it came ranking the three of them as Appreciators Of Books, it went Mickey, then Mandy, then three or four empty spaces, then Ian somewhere at the bottom. He wasn’t even that good at shelving. He had no idea why Janice favored him and Mickey, but at least Mandy didn’t let it bother her.

“You want to go to a movie later?” she said in a strident voice completely inappropriate for the library. Janice shot her a death glare, which Mandy cheerfully ignored.

“I was going to see Mickey later,” Ian said, going on his tiptoes to shove a book on forestry up with its brethren at the top of the shelf. Or at least he hoped it was its brethren. Maybe he was in the veterinary section. He’d check the end of the aisle later.

“Well, change of plans I guess. He’s going on a road trip with the social worker lady to see Dad,” Mandy said, chewing loudly on her gum as she flipped through a well-thumbed romance novel and dog-eared the pages, assumedly in a sleeper attack to irritate Janice in the future. 

Ian stumbled off his step stool, whirling to look at her. “What?” he demanded. When Mandy didn’t answer fast enough, holding Mandy by both shoulders. 

“Easy, grabby,” she complained, pushing at his hands. “I just said Mickey’s going with the social work lady to Indiana to see our dad.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Today, probably." She scowled stubbornly. "I never want to see that asshole again, personally. He said he just wanted to see Mickey, none of the rest of us." She exhaled aggressively. " _Asshole_."

But Ian didn’t care about that. It didn’t matter why, it only mattered that it was happening, and Ian knew, deep in his bones as well as he knew anything, that Mickey needed him there.

He let go of Mandy at once and left his half-empty cart forgotten in the aisle. Mandy was yelling for him, and he could hear Janice yelling at her to _be quiet young lady_ , but he was already out the door and headed for home, a creeping panic making his head nothing but a thrumming refrain of Mickey Needs Me, Mickey Needs Me, over and over.

Back in the neighborhood he flew down the street, his chest burning as he ran, desperately terrified that he was too late. When he reached the Milkovich house, he didn’t even slow down, pounding up the steps to slam his fist against the door.

He barely had time to knock once before the door was swinging open and he was tumbling through the door.

“What in the name of god—” Vicky the social worker was clucking, staring down at him in surprise.

“Mickey,” Ian gasped, “where’s—Mickey—”

“What in the _fuck_ ,” Mickey said from the doorway of the kitchen. He was staring at Ian in perfect, open-mouthed surprise.

“I’m coming with,” Ian managed to get out around panting breaths. The cold air had burned his lungs and now his entire chest burned, but he barely felt it, fixated on Mickey standing in front of him. 

Mickey, who looked startled at his entry but not surprised to see him. “Okay.”

“To Indiana. To see your dad. I’m coming with,” Ian clarified. 

“Okay,” Mickey said again, taking a step toward him.

“But only if you want me to,” Ian tacked on, wincing, not wanting to force Mickey to do anything he didn’t want to. 

“Okay.” By now, Mickey was standing in front of him. He looked almost nervous. “Are you sure?”

Ian rolled his eyes, not dignifying that with a response. He turned to Vicky, who was watching them both in amusement. “I can come with, right?” 

“It’s up to Mickey,” Vicky said with a shrug. When Mickey glared at her, Vicky just smiled. “So I think that’s a yes vote from Mickey. I’m just the driver.”

She left them as she finished packing up some papers into her briefcase, then disappeared into the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge, presumably on the hunt for snacks.

Ian stepped closer to Mickey, lowering his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going?”

Mickey made a dismissive sound, punching Ian lightly in the shoulder. “I was going to come get you at the library. Vicky just had to figure things out with visiting hours.” 

Only somewhat mollified, Ian wrapped his fingers around Mickey’s hand, squeezing firmly. “Good. Because I’m coming with.”

“We established that, asshole,” Mickey said on a groan, but he squeezed Ian’s hand back. His feet were tapping anxiously on the tile. Ian could tell he was a few moments from vibrating out of his skin. 

Vicky reemerged, and herded them outside to her car. “Do you need to ask your parents?” she asked Ian, like an afterthought. “Crap, probably should’ve asked that first?”

“I’ll call my sister Fiona,” Ian assured her. He’d forgotten he even had anyone to call for a minute. He’d forgotten everything in his haste to find Mickey. He fumbled for his phone, shooting off a quick text. Fiona was working tonight anyway.

“We should be back tonight,” Vicky said on a sigh. She looked at Mickey in the rearview mirror, where he was leaning against Ian in the backseat. “Hopefully we’ll get in and get out, and everything will be fine.”

It took an hour to get out of the city during rush hour, and then another hour on the highway up north through construction. Vicky ignored them for the most part, turning on music, letting them sit together.

Mickey was quiet. Ian petted his hand over his leg over and over, wishing he could do more.

He considered telling Mickey that he loved him again. He wanted to say it over and over, until it hung around Mickey like a shield, protecting him no matter where he went, even when Ian couldn't follow.

He settled for letting Mickey lean against him, urging him into the crook of Ian's neck until Mickey sighed, his body relaxing minutely against Ian's.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Mickey said after a few hours. 

“You got this, Mick,” Ian muttered.

As they sat in traffic, the sign for Indiana traffic urging them to merge left in the next three miles, Ian hoped he was right. 

 

***

 

Terry was being held at Indiana State Prison. He was still awaiting a court date after his arraignment, but Mickey had to assume murder charges landed you in the big pen, not just the sheriff’s jail.

Walking in through the heavy doors into the front lobby, Mickey had to cast his mind back to remember the last time he’d visited Terry in prison.

He’d been nine, he thought, maybe eight. His mom had taken him and Mandy to visit Terry at Statesville, where he finishing up six months for a breaking and entering charge. He barely remembered it, but the most distinctive detail in his mind was how exhausted his mom had been, and how she’d barely looked at Terry the entire visit. 

Vicky left Mickey and Ian in the plastic chairs by the door while she checked them in with the lady at the front desk.

Mickey didn’t realize he was shaking until Ian wrapped his hand around his knee.

“You good?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Mickey bit out. He didn’t move his leg from Ian’s grasp though, and when Ian squeezed once, firmly, Mickey slumped a little into the contact. 

Vicky was back by then. “Alright,” she said, voice cheerful, face grim. “Mickey, you’re the only one on the visitor’s list, so this is where we leave you, I guess.” She took a step closer, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You going to be okay in there?”

Mickey shrugged, because it didn’t really matter, did it? He was here now. He’d dragged Vicky and Ian all the way to Indiana, and they were in the prison, and he was about to walk through the metal detectors, and the whole thing felt like being on a conveyor belt he couldn’t step off of, driving him steadily ahead even though he wanted to get off and catch his breath, maybe run away.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled when he noticed Vicky was waiting for an answer.

Ian smiled tightly at him. “Get in there, big guy.”

And then Mickey was walking toward the guard at the metal detector, feeling like someone else was controlling his body.

The guard patted at Mickey’s waist, and he stiffened at the touch. When the man reached around to run his hands under the waistband of his jeans, Mickey jerked away.

“Take it easy, kid,” the guard said tiredly, reaching back out to complete his pat down. He grabbed Mickey by the elbow, guiding him back, but Mickey resisted, leaning away. Almost on instinct, the guard pulled harder, and soon they were struggling.

He didn’t want to be touched. He didn’t want to be manhandled or told what to do, and the more the guard tried to reach him, the instinct to _fight_ , to let his hindbrain take over and hurt the guard until he let go and Mickey could run away, was strong.

“Mickey.” Ian’s voice carried from across the waiting area, insistent. Mickey turned to look at him, and saw that Ian was half out of his chair, already poised to come over. Beside him, Vicky looked nearly as anxious. 

Mickey froze, and slowly, his mind began to catch up with his body.

If he fought the guard, the guard would fight back. The guard had a baton and a gun that Mickey could see, and he was strong and there were other guards. Mickey could probably fight for a while, but eventually they’d probably beat the shit out of him. At some point, Ian would probably throw himself into the fray; maybe even Vicky would get involved. One of them might get hurt too, all while Mickey was letting himself lose control just because it was easier than forcing himself to be calm.

The entire assessment shot through Mickey’s mind like a bolt of lightning. It took a few seconds to settle in, and it wasn’t instantaneous, but Mickey felt his muscles slowly begin to ease. He pressed his palms together flat, and that helped relax his hands and arms up through his shoulders the rest of the way. 

“You okay?” the guard asked warily, staring at Mickey like his sudden stillness was more suspicious than his resistance to the search had been. Mickey didn’t answer. He took a deep breath, and felt how his hands were clenched.

Mickey exhaled. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m fine.” He waited a few more seconds until it was completely true, and then he stepped forward calmly and let the guard finish patting him down.

The guard led him down a corridor, then into a room that they needed to wait to be buzzed in and out of. At the end of the hallway, a room with walls made of clear plastic loomed, and the guard led him inside.

Terry was sitting at a table in the back, both hands cuffed to a metal ring in the middle of the table. He looked thinner. More tired, maybe. He didn’t look as big as Mickey remembered, but then, the last time he’d seen him Terry had been holding a gun at him, so that probably played a part in it, Mickey thought dully.

His dad didn’t notice him until Mickey was halfway across the room, staring sightlessly at a security camera affixed to the corner of the room. A few other inmates were talking quietly with their visitors at other tables. The room was only a quarter full, with two guards stationed at doors on either end of the room. Mickey found himself strangely grateful for their presence as he made his way across the room.

When Terry turned and saw Mickey, he tried to stand, then hunched, his hands caught at the table. He sat back down, nodding stiffly as Mickey settled warily into the plastic chair across the table.

They sat in uncomfortable silence, Terry opening and closing his mouth a few times, looking away. It was like he was torn between his usual rough casualness and the uncomfortable memories of the last time they’d seen each other.

Finally, Terry broke the quiet. “I’m glad you could make it out here,” he said gruffly, almost formally. “I know the drive’s hell from the city." 

“It’s fine,” Mickey said, also strangely cordial. “Vicky drove me.”

“That social worker bitch?” Terry snorted derisively, but there was still a good-natured sound to his laugh, like _oh you know how those social worker bitches can be, don’t you_? “Well, at least she’s good for something.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agreed woodenly. He was on edge, waiting for Terry to say what he needed to. Mickey felt suspended in limbo. He wished Terry would just get going. He couldn’t stand the waiting. 

Terry bent to couch into his palm, then straightened. He seemed to resign himself. “I know the last time we saw each other wasn’t great.”

Mickey did his best not to snort at the understatement, and Terry soldiered on.

“I just wanted to tell you—I wanted to let you know personally. Everything’s taken care of, now,” Terry finished on a flourish. He gave Mickey a meaningful look, which Mickey had no idea what to do with.

When Mickey gave no response, just stared blankly at Terry’s collarbone, his dad elaborated, sounding annoyed that Mickey didn’t get the gist immediately.

“I took care of the bastards who hurt you. It took me a while to track them down, but since you were found, they got sloppy. Started leaving tracks. And I found the bastards," he said. He looked tried, and grim, but beneath it all was some sort of satisfaction. He looked proud of himself. 

Oh, he was just talking about the murders, Mickey realized, somewhat stupidly. He didn’t know why he’d been thinking Terry might want to talk about something else, like what had happened with Ian or why he had stayed away for so long, or what the hell he'd been doing the three years Mickey had been kept captive. In a way the possibilities had been endless, and now they were narrowed back to this one topic, and Mickey felt wistful for what might have been, but also, strangely relieved. Brutal, violent revenge was Terry’s style, and comfortingly familiar. For a moment, a cool, strangely peaceful moment, Mickey felt a well of affection wash over him.

But it didn’t last. Slowly, almost reluctantly, the questions began to rise. He tried to ignore them, but it was impossible, the longer he sat staring at his dad. He tried to keep his face blank, but he could feel his forehead furrowing.

“How did you know who they were?” he couldn’t help but ask. 

“That’s not important,” Terry replied, easily, like he expected to deferred to. Mickey couldn't do that, though. Not now, not with this.

“Yeah, it is important,” he said. He looked at his hands, palms flat against each other in his lap, trying to get the words out. “How did you know where they were? How did you—if you knew who they were, why didn’t you tell the cops?”

“The cops ain’t doing shit, you know that. You want something done, you do it yourself.” Terry shook his head, scowling. “You _know_ that, Mickey.”

Terry was looking at Mickey like he had before he walked in on him and Ian, like he was trying to see the son he knew in the boy who was sitting in front of him. Like the Mickey he saw was a stranger, but if he just pushed hard enough, he’d find the Mickey he remembered.

But Mickey wasn’t that son anymore. It was time to stop acting like it.

“Dad.” Mickey paused, savoring the moment between one word and the next, realizing that he would never be able to go back to this second in time and unlearn whatever Terry told him next. “Did you know where I was the whole time?”

Mickey wasn’t completely sure what he’d expected, but wide-eyed, stunned hurt making his dad go temporarily silent was not it.

It took Terry a moment to find the words, it seemed, but when he did, his voice was hoarse. “Mickey. _Mick_. No, for fuck’s sake— _no_ , I didn’t know where you were. If I’d known, I would’ve gone and gotten you, burned the whole fucking place to the ground. I never would’ve left you.” 

While Mickey had to admit it was reassuring to hear, something still felt off. “But you knew—did you know who did it? Who took me?” 

There was a long, tense pause, during which Terry seemed to be visibly deliberating how much to reveal. Finally, he heaved a sigh. “Yes.”

Even though Mickey had been halfway expecting it, had been growing more certain lately that he hadn’t been snatched off the street like a kid on the side of a milk carton, that his dad was involved somehow, it was still a blow to hear out loud. It still made him feel like he’d fallen flat on his back, all the wind knocked out him.

He knew that the police had had next to no leads, because his family didn’t know anything, because nobody in the neighborhood knew anything. But Terry had known.

He wondered about his mom, suddenly. Had she left because she couldn’t deal with Terry’s lies anymore? Had that been what had driven her away, finally, dying somewhere convinced her husband knew where Mickey was but wouldn’t tell? 

“Tell me,” Mickey said, his voice so low he saw Terry lean slightly across the table to catch the words.

“Mick.” It sounded like a benediction.

“Tell me what happened,” Mickey said. This time, he looked up sharply, catching his dad’s eyes for a moment, but he couldn’t hold it for long. His chest was aching, his hands were curling as he sat, and he only remembered to press his palms flat together again at the last moment.

For a long moment, he didn’t think Terry would answer. As he watched, Terry seemed to be struggling with whether to reveal this vast well of information he’d had no intention of discussing with Mickey today, potentially ever. He apparently hadn’t anticipated a scenario where Mickey did more than gratefully accept Terry’s vicious, murderous tribute. 

The silence stretched so long that Mickey was considering getting up and leaving.

Then, on a rush, like he was speaking in spite of himself, Terry looked at Mickey and—“You were just supposed to be collateral, just for a few days." He grimaced, his hands tensing, then relaxing where they were cuffed to the table. 

“Collateral?” Mickey repeated, feeling oddly numb.

Terry hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Back then, you probably don’t remember, but back when you kids were younger, me and your uncles were working with some new guys. Russians. Big outfit. Lot of connections.”

Mickey let the words wash over him, the nonsensical details, waiting for Terry to say something meaningful. Terry, who seemed to be getting lost in the telling, speaking with the energy of a man thinking he would be vindicated, if only someone would hear his tale.

“The fucking Russians. Never do business with Russians, Mick.” Terry smirked, like they were sharing a joke. Mickey didn’t smile, and Terry sobered again. “They had a connection with some guys for smack. I knew I could make a big sell, but they needed collateral.”

 _Collateral_. The word pinged in Mickey’s brain. Such a stiff, professional word. Bloodless. Had the potential to obscure all types of depravity.

“There was a bust, some fucking snitch in the Russian’s outfit, I swear to fucking god. It was a total fucking mess. No smack, no money, we were just left there with our dicks in our hands. So I didn’t have the money to get you back.”

Mickey swallowed against a throat gone dry. “So it was all about…it was money.” Again, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected. He couldn’t say that a more noble chain of events would make the three years of his life spent in captivity any less of a theft. It was still so—small. Monday. Such a small fucking thing. 

“It wasn’t money, it was the principle of it,” Terry argued.

“It was the money,” Mickey said dully.

Terry shook his head stubbornly. “No, you’re not listening.” He set both hands flat on the table, leaning forward almost earnestly toward Mickey. “I went to check on you, and your uncles were going to come with, and we were going to fucking lay those assholes out and get you back. But they must’ve been on to us, because they had us running around all over the goddamn city until they got me to come alone to those buildings by the old chocolate factory, by the house.”

Mickey could see them in his mind’s eye, the ring of abandoned buildings, one burned to the ground, now. One that _he_ had burned to the ground. Because he remembered, apparently, or a part of him had—remembered what had happened there.

Remembered. The thought struck him completely still.

“Those two assholes wouldn’t let me see you without paying half up front, fucking jokers. Said they were keeping you someplace else, just to be safe.” Terry’s mouth curved in a sneer at the sheer audacity of the demand. “I wasn’t going to pay to see my own fucking son.”

The words hit Mickey in the chest like blows. They rang in his head. He was hearing Terry say them right now, but he realized he was also hearing them as an echo, he remembered hearing them, a rag that smelled like mold and mud tied over his face, something thick and equally foul-smelling stuffed in his mouth, a sock maybe? He was tied up, the rough cement of a roof digging into his skin, pushed against a wall around a corner but close enough that he could hear his dad fighting with the voices of two men.

_I won’t pay to see my own fucking son._

He remembered that, he thought dazedly. He _remembered_.

“We made a deal to meet later, and I’d bring the money, but I was just going to fucking kill ‘em. I wasn’t going to pay them shit. But they must’ve heard about that, because they fucking disappeared.” 

At that, Terry’s voice faltered. He stared blindly at Mickey’s lap, where his hands were pressed flat together. He shook his head slightly, then let it fall still.

“I didn’t know they’d take you.” He sounded desperate. “I didn’t know they’d—whatever they did to you, Mick, I had no idea. I didn’t think they’d _hurt_ you.”

“They didn’t.” Mickey heard himself speak with the mild, detached amusement of watching a magic trick, his flat voice drifting out his mouth like someone else was manning the controls. “They didn’t hurt me. They forgot about me, mostly.”

It took a moment for it all to connect, all of his pieces and parts feeling like they were floating away, his words so removed he barely heard them at first. Then he frowned, repeating what he’d said.

“They forgot about me all the time.”

He frowned harder. The more he repeated it, the more he realized he was talking about something he remembered. All this effort to remember, drawing and talking and desperately trying to draw it all forth, and here he was, so shocked by his own father's involvement that he was spewing forth truth without any effort.

Because he remembered being forgotten. He remembered what it felt like—like sitting against a cold cement wall for hours and days and years, never hearing anything but the sound of your own breathing, your heart beating, the strange whisperings of your own mind. 

“Well, thank god for that,” Terry said shakily. “Thank god.”

Mickey reared back in his seat. “Thank god?” 

“You said—at least they didn’t, your remember now, they didn’t hurt you?” 

“No. They forgot about me.” He was getting worked up, and the angrier he got, the less he focused on what he was saying, and somehow that seemed to loosen things up, until he was speaking without thought, blurting out memories that he only realized were true once he heard them leave his mouth, the delay between verbalizing the truth and recognizing it for what it was dizzying. “They’d fucking forget I was out there. They’d leave me in the shed with some food and forget me for days. They never—I didn’t hear—they forgot about me.”

Looking at his dad, at Terry’s stunned, slack face, Mickey felt his entire body start to shake. 

“They moved me all over the place, did you fucking know that?”

He didn’t give Terry a chance to respond, mostly because he was too worried that if he stopped to think, the memories would dry up again, and he might never get this chance again, to let them flow freely through him like someone else had turned the faucet on.

“It was like they couldn’t fucking stand to look at me.” And they barely had, he realized. They’d gone out of their way to keep something tied over his face, something stuffed in his mouth, ignoring his furious screams and desperate struggling whenever they moved him. He had a sudden sharp, suffocating recollection of being transported in a car trunk for hours, then shuffled into a dark room and kept there for days. Then being moved to a basement, then into the trunk again. Like the men who were keeping him were running from something, like they needed to stay on the move. Before they settled, before they put him in the shed and left him there. In Indiana, apparently.

“I don’t know why they didn’t just kill me,” Mickey whispered, mostly to himself.

It didn’t make sense, to drag a boy across state lines, to go to the trouble of keeping him alive. None of this made sense. If this was a book he checked out from the library, there would be reasoning behind it, he’d understand all the details, he’d discuss it with Ben, he could figure it out. But working through the pieces of the story he had, that his dad would part with and his brain could suddenly recall, was like navigating a world turned upside down.

And after all, Mickey remembered with horrible awe, they had tried to kill him eventually. He'd almost died. It was more than a chill that ran over his body—it felt like something stole his breath, for a moment.

But more than the brush with death, the suffering, for some reason, it was the mundane incompetency that was filling Mickey with sudden rage as he sat there, letting it wash over him. Three years of his life, his memory, his mind, all of it sacrificed to the ridiculous, posturing alter of his own father’s inability to lose face.

It was all so fucking bumbling, so _petty_ , the type of horror wrought by useless, brutal idiots. A moron using his son as collateral than refusing to pay the money to set him free; two other morons stealing that son as revenge, then dragging him along like some kind of pet, unable to stand the sight of him but unable to muster up the courage to kill him, until they finally threw him away like garbage, and even _that_ they couldn’t do effectively.

Not some son or some boy, though, Mickey reminded himself. Him. _Mickey_. All these things had been done to _Mickey_.

Across the table, apparently blissfully unaware of the anger boiling under Mickey’s skin, Terry sat back in his chair. “I thought you _were_ dead,” he admitted quietly. “After the first year, I thought you were gone, that they’d killed you. I thought—maybe that would’ve been better.”

The arrogance of his dad’s words stunned Mickey to silence, and then he spat out, “How would you know that?”

Mickey didn’t want to be _dead_ , and fuck Terry for thinking otherwise. He decided with bitter satisfaction that if nothing else, he was glad he was alive to spite his fucking father. But most of all, he realized slowly, he was just glad to be alive. Period.

If he'd died, he wouldn’t have gotten to read again, or eaten French fries again, or been bossed around by Mandy again, or seen fireworks again, or kissed Ian, or fucked Ian, or _been with Ian_. He never would have seen him. 

The man sitting across from him didn’t know about any of that. He didn’t know who Mickey was, now. He probably didn’t want to know. He probably never would. It was easy to appreciate now, in jail, with armed guards at the door, turning Terry’s usually intimidating presence inescapably milder. 

While Mickey let that marinate in the roiling mess of his mind, Terry seemed most distracted by something else.

“But those bastards who took you, even if they didn’t _hurt_ you—whatever they did, they must’ve done something. _To you_. To make you—to turn you into.” Pausing to swallow thickly, Terry glanced away, collecting himself. “I couldn’t let them get away with it.” 

Mickey’s mouth fell open, just barely, but enough that he felt the stale air of the visiting room on his tongue. “Wait.” It seemed outrageous, that after everything Mickey had just admitted, Terry was fixating on this one detail, but he had to be sure. “Are you talking about—with Ian?”

Terry seemed outraged that Mickey would dare speak Ian’s name in his presence, but Mickey was so confused he didn’t really spare it much thought.

“Don’t say that faggot’s name to me,” Terry spat out. 

Mickey looked at his dad’s shoulder, feeling like he was having an out of body experience, and at the same time, bizarrely fascinated by the man in front of him, sterilized and defanged and chained to a metal table. 

“So you killed those two guys, you disappeared and hunted them down, and let yourself get arrested, all because you think they—turned me gay?”

“You watch your fucking mouth.” Terry’s face was getting red. The guard at the door noticed the unrest and straightened up, leveling Terry with a look.

“What happened to me, it didn’t _make me_ …Dad.” Mickey laughed once, helplessly, at the dark absurdity of the conversation, at his dad’s almost prissy reticence to call a gay spade a gay spade, because it was one thing to be abducted and held captive and neglected for years, but to be molested and turned gay, that was beyond the pale, apparently.

“Dad,” Mickey said again, an absent smile hanging forgotten on his mouth. He probably looked like a lunatic. He didn't care. It was all too ridiculous. “How can you care more about who I want to fuck now than what happened to me then?” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Mick.”

“Of all the ways I’m fucked up now—that’s not one of them.” Ian was the best part of his life now, and he wanted to tell Terry that, but sitting there, looking at his dad glaring, impotently outraged, meaty hands clenched into fists.

All of a sudden, Mickey wanted to be anywhere that wasn’t here. He pushed his chair back from the table. 

He wanted to tell his dad that he hoped they threw the book at him, that if he was locked up, then maybe he would know what he was like. He wanted to tell his dad that he wasn’t fucking grateful that he’d killed the men who’d taken him, because he’d done it for himself, not for Mickey. That Mickey didn’t need him anymore. 

But it didn’t seem worth it, in the end. He let himself take a last long look at Terry’s face. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to see him again for a long time. Maybe, if he was very lucky, he would never see him again, ever. 

As he stood, Mickey noticed, to his cold surprise, that Terry’s eyes were wet.

Terry rushed to stand as well, his hands cuffed to the table stopping his progress so that he stood halfway up. “Mickey, I’m sorry. You gotta believe—I’m sorry.”

Mickey nodded absently. He didn’t know if he believed Terry was sorry. He didn’t know if it mattered anymore. Nothing felt like it mattered right now.

With a last look, but without a last word, Mickey turned and walked to the guard manning the door. He looked down at Mickey in pity, and Mickey wondered how much he’d heard. Back at the table, Terry was struggling and trying to get Mickey to come back, but it was all just a garbled blur to Mickey. 

The guard opened the door, and Mickey walked out, away from his dad, and didn’t look back.

 

***

 

When Mickey came back into the lobby, he looked completely numb.

Both Ian and Vicky shot to their feet, coming to stand beside him, but Mickey barely seemed to register they were there.

“Hey,” Ian said softly, rubbing Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey tilted his head enough that he could eye Ian vaguely, then looked back down. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Vicky posted herself at Mickey’s other shoulder, eyes dark and worried. 

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” Mickey said. His voice sounded odd. Ian and Vicky went into action immediately.

They walked him outside, both flanking him like he was the president. Ian couldn’t stop touching him, running his hand over Mickey’s shoulder or touching his fingertips, bumping shoulders as they walked. Mickey seemed insubstantial, like he could float away, and Ian felt irrationally anxious that if he didn’t keep hold, Mickey would be lost.

They settled into the car, but Vicky didn’t put the keys in right away. She, like Ian, waited on Mickey.

After a small eternity, Mickey seemed to shake himself. He looked up at Vicky. “So we’re going home again?”

“Yes,” Vicky said.

“I don’t want to.” Mickey closed his eyes and rested his head against the headrest. “I don’t want to go home. I don’t want—I don’t want to be a person right now.”

“Do you need to call Dr. Tran?” Vicky asked. She sounded slightly alarmed, but was obviously trying to hold it back. Mickey didn’t seem to notice. He shook his head. 

“No, I’m fine, I just—I can’t see my brothers right now. I can’t see that house. I just need to—I can’t go home right now.” 

Ian scooted closer to him, feeling helpless to do anything but hold his hand.

“We don’t have anything set up for the night,” Vicky said regretfully. “I only filled out the paperwork for an afternoon trip, I need to get you home.”

Mickey ducked his head, staring at his knees. A shiver ran through his body, making his shoulders shake. It was all Ian could do not to wrap Mickey up with his arms and legs and curl him up in the narrow space on the floor of the car, behind the front seats, curling around him like a shell.

Finally, Vicky sighed, seeming to accept defeat as she looked at Mickey’s pitiful slouch. “Let me make some calls,” she said, and got out of the car. As they watched, she took out of her cell phone and started pacing in the parking lot. 

Mickey leaned against Ian and didn’t say a word. Ian didn’t really know what to say, so he said nothing, leaning back against Mickey, so they were pressed together from their shoulders to their thighs. Ian rubbed his forehead against Mickey’s temple and silently wished he could make things easier for him.

Eventually Vicky got back in the car. “You boys ever stayed in a hotel before?” She smiled tiredly at them in the rearview mirror.

Ian hadn’t. If he had to hazard a guess, he’d say Mickey hadn’t either. 

“Are we going to a hotel?” Ian couldn't help but ask curiously.

She arched an eyebrow at them both, then put the key in the ignition. “Looks like we’re all taking a break for the night.”

They drove away from the prison and found a Holiday Inn on the highway. He texted Fiona along the way, then Mandy also. The lobby was a lot less glamorous than Ian expected, but it was still cleaner than his house and he found himself reluctantly enchanted. Mickey didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. Vicky bought them two rooms for the night. She handed Mickey one card, and kept the other for herself.

They collected a handful of complimentary travel toiletries from the desk, toothbrushes and tiny tubes of toothpaste and a narrow black comb. Ian couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Vicky putting down her own credit card for the room. He wondered if this was normal protocol, if she would be reimbursed later, or if she was treating them on her own dime. He wondered if she was just as desperate to do something nice for Mickey.

As they trooped to the elevator, the worried glances she kept throwing Mickey’s way seemed to answer that question. 

She followed them into their room and closed the door.

“Okay, ground rules.” She leveled a stern look at both of them. “This isn’t a love nest. I’m not subsidizing your shenanigans.” She pointed at the pullout couch. “I am officially assuming one of you is sleeping there, and the other on the bed, because the state of Illinois in no way condones underage tomfoolery or whatever you kids are calling it these days.”

“We’re calling it sex,” Ian said. “We still call it sex.”

Vicky rolled her eyes, then turned to Mickey. Her eyes softened. “I know it might not mean anything, but...I’m proud of you, kiddo,” she told Mickey, voice slightly tremulous. “You’ve been through a hell of a lot, and you’re still fighting, and that’s just about the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen.” She blinked, wiping at her eyes as she turned toward the door. 

“Okay, lights out as soon as you brush your teeth,” she said over her shoulder, and left them alone in the room.

It was surreal, being alone in this surprisingly big, clean hotel room, like they were on some kind of field trip, rather than a cursed journey into Mickey’s past. Ian didn’t want to force Mickey to relive any of it, or talk about what had happened with Terry if he didn’t want to, so he decided to pull a Fiona and act like everything was Fine, Just Fine.

“So, you can have the bathroom first if you want,” he offered.

As he turned to the bed, ready to bounce on it like in the movies but before he could get a running start, Mickey tackled him to the bed.

Ian made a startled sound, his face pressed to the bedspread as Mickey caged him in. He squawked, twisting around until he was flat on his back, Mickey straddling him, staring down intently. His expression was solemn. Ian looked up at him, waiting.

“Will you fuck me?” Mickey asked seriously. His face was carefully blank. Ian got the sense he was barely holding it together.

“Are you sure? Maybe we shouldn’t.” Ian ran his hands gently up and down Mickey’s thighs, trying to soothe him. Mickey slapped his hands down over Ian’s, stilling him

“Yes,” Mickey said firmly. He closed his eyes, a slight frown marring is brow. “I don’t want to be in my body right now.” He opened his eyes again, and he looked so bleak Ian reared up reflexively, pressing kisses to his face.

“Okay,” Ian murmured, “okay, just hold on.” He twisted to grab his wallet out of his pants, mentally crossing his fingers as he dug through for his emergency supplies. He hissed in victory when he encountered the slippery shape of the condom beneath the foil, and a one-use lube packet beneath it.

He thought the condom might be on the edge of expiration, but it was still good, and the packet of lube was small but it was there. He threw up a prayer of thanks to whatever fastidious god had reminded him to restock the lube a few weeks ago, watching as Mickey yanked his shirt over his head and started tearing at Ian’s.

Mostly Ian tried not to get in the way. Mickey seemed almost scarily focused, pulling their clothes off until they were both naked except for Ian’s left sock that had been overlooked in the flurry. He ran his hands over Ian’s chest, bending to bite at his nipple, sucking a mark into his chest. 

It was clinical, almost. Like he was working from a checklist to get Ian hard, and Ian found himself reacting without thinking. 

He sat up, scooting back sitting up against the frame of the bed, dragging Mickey with him. Mickey frowned as Ian took temporary control, but settled over Ian’s lap, watching him warily. 

“You can have whatever you want, Mick,” Ian said softly. He kissed Mickey once, then twice, then found himself falling into it, running his hands up Mickey’s sides, licking into his mouth until Mickey groaned and bit his lip, driving the kiss rougher and hotter until Ian was gasping, yanking Mickey tighter so they could grind their cocks together.

Mickey pulled back. “Get in me,” he pleaded, breathless, “please, just—hurry. Ian.” 

Ian shushed him as best he could when he could barely catch his breath, stretching for the supplies. He ripped open the lube, cupping Mickey’s face with one hand while he traced his rim with the other.

Mickey whimpered above him, shoving down on Ian’s hand, eager and rushing, impatient to wait while Ian fingered him. Ian wanted to slow down, make it last, but Mickey as writhing on top of him, eating at Ian’s mouth, and the prep became just as rushed, Ian getting caught up in Mickey’s need to prove something, to be together, to forget about whatever had happened with his dad.

“Ian,” Mickey groaned as Ian scissored his fingers, twisting them on the in-thrust. “Now, come on. _Fuck_ , please.”

Something about hearing Mickey beg made Ian’s heart twist, and he pulled his fingers free, unwilling to withhold anything from Mickey at this point. He put the condom on, his hands shaking, slicking his cock with the lube left in the packet, but when he went to guide himself into Mickey’s hole, Mickey grabbed his wrist.

He shoved Ian’s hand onto wall beside his head, and took a hold of Ian’s cock himself, Ian shuddering at the tight grip. Staring into Ian’s eyes, Mickey sat on his cock, never breaking eye contact as he slid down, shuddering until he was at the base. When Ian was all the way inside, Mickey grabbed his other hand and pinned it to the wall too, holding Ian immobile as he clenched, staring the entire time.

It was the longest streak of uninterrupted eye contact Ian had ever had with Mickey, and he could barely link, the connection too intense, the hot, tight feeling of Mickey around his cock too intense, the entire moment so singular that Ian’s chest was tight, his throat working.

And then Mickey began to move.

Holding Ian’s wrists tight enough to bruise, he rose up on his knees, dragging slowly, staring Ian in the eye the whole time. Ian knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t help it. His hips twitched, and Mickey came down again, brutally hard, holding Ian still with his whole body weight for a moment before sitting up again.

Slowly he established a rhythm, shoving down when Ian moved too much, keeping Ian’s hands secure, staring into Ian’s eyes, going faster and faster, sweat building on his brow and neck and chest.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian bit out, completely entranced, wishing he could watch the way his cock disappeared into Mickey’s body over and over, but powerless to drag his gaze from Mickey’s eyes, bright blue and almost glowing in the half-dark hotel room.

Mickey only rode Ian harder, grunting every time Ian bottomed out inside him, hissing as his cock dragged against his rim as he stood on his knees, pulling nearly free, sinking back down, starting all over again. 

They were both breathing hard and turning red and Ian was half blind from sweat dripping in his eyes, staring blearily at Mickey as Mickey bounced on his cock. Mickey watched Ian jealously, drinking in the way Ian shook, fighting to hold still, to let Mickey take whatever he wanted from him, to take whatever he _needed_.

Then Mickey took a hard shuddering breath, and then another. Ian frowned, peering closer, and that’s when he realized Mickey was crying.

He wanted to stop, the wipe the tears from Mickey’s face, but Mickey didn’t slow down or release Ian’s hands, he just kept going, chasing some finish line, each breath a sobbing exhale, yanking Ian’s orgasm from him, demanding it, and in the end Ian was powerless to resist.

His eyes squeezed shut, his body shaking as he came hard inside Mickey, a bright golden light of feeling that seemed to last and last.

He opened his eyes just as Mickey released Ian’s arms and gripped his own red, neglected cock with both hands, jerking it roughly, keening. Ian reached forward, knocking his hands away so he could do it himself. Mickey let him, too far gone to keep entirely in control, not when he was so close.

“Come for me,” Ian whispered, and Mickey did, like he'd just been waiting for permission. His back arched, his cock shooting all over his belly and Ian’s chest, his body jerking with aftershocks as he emptied himself completely.

Afterward, Mickey went limp against Ian’s chest. He breathed heavily, his arms falling loosely at his sides. His head bowed as he pressed his forehead into the crook of Ian’s neck.

Without a thought, Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey, holding him tightly to him, mindless of the sweat and come squishing between them. He kissed Mickey’s sweaty temple, tasting the salt of stray tear.

“I love you so much,” Ian whispered. Mickey shifted in Ian’s arms. He kept one arm secure around Mickey’s waist, running the palm of his other hand up and down Mickey’s back in a firm, smooth rhythm. “I love you.”

He could feel Mickey’s moist breath against his skin, his hot, wet face rubbing against Ian’s throat. Every time Ian repeated the words, Mickey burrowed closer, until they were plastered together so tightly Ian could feel how Mickey’s ribs expanded with each breath.

“I love you, no matter what,” Ian said. He pressed a kiss onto Mickey’s sweaty temple. Mickey sighed, his body a heavy weight against Ian. Ian craved it, the dense evidence that Mickey was here, alive, with him. 

Mickey didn’t say anything in response as Ian murmured the same litany of love-words over and over. He barely moved at all.

He just let Ian hold him, until eventually he fell asleep slumped in Ian’s lap, completely trusting in a way that kept Ian awake for much longer, keeping watch over Mickey while he slept, feeling capable of anything if it meant protecting the boy snoring gently in his arms.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience! As always, you dudes are the best. Ch. 10 will be up next ~~Monday!~~ ~~Tuesday March 31~~ yikes I'm so sorry - Thursday, April 2.
> 
> Tumblaaaa: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW for past mentions of child abuse/neglect.

***

 

**February**

 

***

 

Mickey was doing his best to sit as close to Ian as humanly possible. They were sitting on the floor wedged between Historical Fiction and Military History in the back corner of the library, and over the last half hour Mickey had been inching ever steadily, stealthily closer. They were pressed together from hip to knee, but Mickey still found himself pushing for more.

It felt safer there, tucked into the lanky warmth of Ian’s body. It made Mickey feel quiet, calm, for a brief moment at least.

From above him, Ian snorted. “How you doing down there, man?” he asked, amused.

Looking up, Mickey did his best to look innocent. “I don't know what you're talking about.” 

“I’m just saying,” Ian said, tipping his head so he could dig his pointy chin playfully into the crown of Mickey’s head, “if you want all up on this, just say so. No need to be coy.”

Mickey grumbled, refocusing on the book in his lap he hadn’t really been reading since he sat down, elbowing Ian in the side as he shifted. Ian made an _oof_ sound, but huffed out a breathless laugh. He didn’t comment as Mickey drew his knees up and let one fall casually across Ian’s thigh, but Mickey could feel him smirking regardless.

It was the tail end of Ian’s shift, which Ian usually spent malingering in the back, watching Mickey pretend to read while he actually attempted to crawl into Ian’s lap. 

Almost since he’d first met Ian, Mickey had  assumed that Ian’s true nature was enthusiastic, almost canine loyalty. It had been fun, in the beginning, pushing up against that boundless energy, pinning him down, riding along on his good-natured resilience.

But it turned out where Ian really shined was quiet, unobtrusive comfort. Since the afternoon at the jail visiting his dad, Mickey had been retreating. He went to therapy and tutoring, but he was listless and detached, and Vicky was becoming visibly anxious, watching him withdraw. In the kitchen one afternoon, he’d told her some details of what his father had revealed, but not all, just to satisfy her need to know, and Iggy had overhead somehow. So now all three of his brothers knew, and Mandy besides. They were shell-shocked. His brothers seemed awkwardly eager to show their loyalty, and Mandy wanted to talk it out, of all things. 

So Mickey did his best to avoid all four of them, slipping away at every opportunity to be with Ian.

Ian was the only one who let Mickey be quiet. He was the only one who seemed to trust Mickey to take care of himself. He wished he could reassure Ian, and everyone else really, that he was okay, he just needed time, but he didn't know how to find the words. Somehow, Ian seemed to know it anyway, and Mickey didn't know how. He just let Mickey follow him around regardless, cling a little harder than before, never questioning, just giving in, offering up his time and his presence.

As Mickey frowned, lost in thought, he felt a warm press of lips against his forehead and he jerked, startled, and looked up.

Ian was smiling down at him. “You want to come over for dinner tonight?” he asked.

Mickey shrugged, and Ian didn’t push for more. Instead, he unfolded his giraffe legs, knocking into Mickey no fewer than three times (and judging from his smirk at least two of those were intentional, the shithead) and finally stood, stretching languorously with his arms above his head so his T-shirt rose, revealing the surprisingly thick auburn trail leading from his belly into his pants. Mickey’s mouth felt dry as he watched, helplessly, as Ian quirked an eyebrow, hiking a thumb behind him in the direction of the bathroom, and turned to saunter off toward the men’s room.

Mickey was so caught up watching Ian walk away, and subsequently forcing himself to remain seated rather than hop up and follow after him like a shadow, that he didn’t notice he was no longer alone in the back of the aisle until there was a boom.

He flinched, swearing, and spun around, only to see Janice breathing heavily over a box that she’d evidently dropped. 

“Shit,” she said under her breath, then glanced up, seeming just as startled at the sight of Mickey. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t know you were still here.”

Mickey could only shrug at that, because technically he’d been hiding with Ian, running out the clock to the end of his shift, so Janice would rightfully assume they were already gone. 

She looked ruefully down at the box, straightening up and wincing at a crick in her neck. She arched an eyebrow at Mickey. “If only I had a library employee who could organize these donated books for me. Perhaps a strapping young redhead. Alas.”

She sighed gustily, but to Mickey’s surprise, she didn’t leave right away. She leaned against the shelf instead, crossing her arms as she looked down at him. 

He went stiff, staring at the book in his lap. This week he was reading Kidnapped, assigned by Ben before Ben seemed to realize the potential parallels between David Belfour and Mickey (which Mickey considered minimal—if given the chance, he would’ve instantly traded up for David’s Scottish adventures than his dreary three years in darkness). But watching his tutor stutter and blush and try to take it back had been half the fun, and he was liking the action in the book so far.

He didn’t read a word, though, as Janice studied him.

Finally, after an uncomfortably moment that seemed to stretch for days, she spoke. “Are you doing okay?” she asked. “You’ve seemed quieter recently.”

“It’s a library,” Mickey muttered. Janice was the one always getting cranky when Ian or Mandy talked too much, what did she care if Mickey was quiet?

“Well yes, you are much more respectful of the sanctity of this space than other patrons, like your sister,” Janice allowed, but when Mickey glanced up, he saw her face wasn’t nearly as hard as her words implied. “But it’s more than that. Is everything...are you alright?”

Mickey had always assumed Janice knew who he was. His notoriety in the neighborhood seemed to proceed him, and while Janice would never be so forward as to explicitly say it, Mickey could tell she fussed over him, and hovered, all from afar. 

When Mickey stayed silent, Janice knelt down, ostensibly to dig through the box of donated books. She gave up shortly though, clearing her throat delicately as she leaned back, wrapping her arms around her knees. She looked younger this way. She’d always seemed firmly Old to Mickey, but then, he’d never really thought about it. Now, she looked nearly as young as Vicky.

“Things must be very difficult,” she said haltingly, and Mickey was surprised that he found her awkwardness a little endearing. “I can’t imagine. I’m very sorry, for all of it.”

This was the closest Janice had ever come to mentioning directly what had happened to Mickey. Really, this was the most Janice had ever said directly to Mickey at all, without the careful barrier of Ian between them.

“So you’re alright? As alright as you can be?” she tried again, and maybe it was the determined set of her mouth despite the uncomfortable flush working its way up her neck, but Mickey found himself responding. 

“My dad’s in jail,” he said. 

Janice made a considering sound. “That must be very challenging, after...everything.” She cracked a wry smile. “Doesn’t it feel like when it rains problems, it just pours?”

Mickey nodded. It was strangely apt, considering the cascading failure of the last few months.

“Mickey,” she said, and Mickey thought this might be the first time she’d used his name directly to him, “you know you can come here whenever you want, even when Ian’s not working. You’re always welcome. I want you to feel...welcome, here.” 

Mickey didn’t know how to respond to that. He could only blink, glancing up and locking eyes with Janice in a way that would have been unthinkable just six months before. He stared at her for a moment, overwhelmed by the offer. By what it meant. 

It was surreal that Janice cared enough about Mickey to ask how he was doing. It was bizarre thinking about the seemingly constantly expanding circle of individuals who had a vested interest in Mickey’s life, when for so long, he’d existed separately from any such consideration. It made him a little seasick, moving so completely from one extreme to the other, but looking at the concern on Janice’s face, herself a virtual stranger who was in no way obligated to care but _did_ , anyway, made something inside Mickey feel light in a way he couldn’t explain.

There was a shuffling sound of feet approaching, and the moment was broken, Mickey looking up to see Ian hurrying toward the back aisle, his eyes worried as he took in Janice leaning against the bookshelf talking to Mickey.

“Janice,” he said when he reached them both, sounding contrite. His eyes darted back and forth between Mickey and the librarian like he was deciding if he needed to intervene, to whisk Mickey from Janice’s evil clutches. Mickey gave him a dry look, silently telling him to stand down.

“I just ran to the bathroom,” Ian told Janice soothingly, “I was just going to start sorting the donated books.”

“I’ll bet you were,” Janice said with a surprisingly adolescent roll of her eyes. “I was just talking to your friend here.”

“Boyfriend,” Ian corrected automatically, and although Mickey made a face, he felt himself blushing, hiding his secret smile as he ducked his chin toward his book.

“Your boyfriend,” Janice amended easily. “I was just thinking, if he had the time, we might have room for another junior assistant. He spends nearly as much time here as you do, and he seems to have a deeper appreciation for literature itself.” Her voice took on a lecturing tone, but it seemed to slide off Ian’s back. 

Mickey, for his part, tried not to let the praise go to his head, but it was difficult. It made him feel important, for a moment. Because he had a deep appreciation of literature, apparently. 

“That would be awesome!” Ian burst out, then coughed, tempering his enthusiasm. “I mean, sure, it would probably be nice to have an extra set of hands.”

“This isn’t an excuse for you two to cuddle up in the back of the library while books needs shelving,” Janice said sternly. She glanced down at Mickey. “But it would be a good way for you to get some job experience. You can familiarize yourself with the library. Maybe you can look into studying library sciences, one day.” Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey thought he saw Janice’s mouth soften. “I just think it’s important to start thinking about the future.”

She sounded pragmatic, stuffy even, rattling off the dry reasons why Mickey should work at the library too, and while Ian looked bemused, Mickey couldn’t help but hear the meaning between the words: _You can start making plans, if you want. You can belong here, if you want._

It was a terrifying thought, really. The idea that Mickey had a future that he was in charge of, now.

Ian cocked his head as she spoke, still looking confused. But when Mickey nodded at her, she nodded back, and that was that, apparently.

Janice roused herself, straightening up from the shelf like she just realized where she was. “Finish shelving the returns and you can leave for the evening,” she told Ian. “But not a moment before!”

They watched Janice return to the front desk, and when she was gone, Ian threw himself back on the ground beside Mickey, jostling him unrepentantly, grinning at Mickey’s scowl.

“Looks like someone has a crush on you,” Ian said, teasing. 

Letting himself fall against Ian’s body again, Mickey felt himself calm. “Yeah,” he said softly, bumping his shoulder against Ian’s but not pulling back, letting the contact stretch out, “you do.” 

Ian no longer looked teasing when he wrapped an arm around Mickey’s shoulder. “You’re not wrong,” he said with a quiet laugh.

He pressed another kiss to Mickey’s forehead, and Mickey closed his eyes, drinking in the moment and, more tentatively, the promise of a future.

 

***

 

Ian was worried about Mickey, but then, it was becoming difficult to think of a time in the recent past when Ian _wasn’t_ worried about Mickey.

Something had happened between Mickey and his dad. Ian wouldn’t be surprised to learn Terry had revealed something horrible about Mickey’s captivity, but Ian was reluctant to press for too many details. In a way, he was afraid, and he knew it made him a coward, but it was difficult enough knowing what he did about what had happened to Mickey, that there was nothing he could do about it now, that he couldn’t go back and save Mickey from anything. He could only help him navigate the aftermath.

He was curious, but he was also happy to let Mickey tell him on his own time. And Mickey didn't seem eager to do that, still processing whatever revelations had transpired at the jail.

So he did the only thing he could think of. He let Mickey cling when he needed. He let him be silent, and didn’t bother him to speak if he didn’t want to. He did his best to make himself available for Mickey, whenever he needed him.

Lip had started to tease him that he was like an on-call nurse, obsessively preparing to be paged to duty. Ian grumbled, but Lip wasn’t that far off.

Mickey had been sleeping over more nights than not, and staying for dinner at the Gallagher house even more often than that. Fiona seemed to sense that something was different, and reacted by mothering Mickey more intensely than ever before. Mickey seemed to shy away from the attention, leaning more heavily on Ian, but Fiona was helpless to stop herself, and dinners most nights were a nearly hilarious positive feedback loop of Fiona trying to feed Mickey or draw him into conversation or feed him or ask him how tutoring was going or _feed him_ , and then Mickey retreating further and further into Ian’s side, mulishly remaining silent. 

It was a vicious cycle, and all Ian could do was watch, helplessly, while Lip nearly pulled a retinal muscle rolling his eyes from across the table.

Ian wanted to help Mickey, but he didn’t know how, so all he could do was worry about him, constantly. 

Needless to say, it was distracting.

Specifically, ROTC was becoming a hassle. Whereas he used to love the monotony of it, the predictability of drills and the sweet burn of pushing his body through strenuous workouts, his head was rarely in the game anymore. Usually Mickey watched from the stands after his tutoring sessions let out, sitting far up in the corner away from the usual clumps of girls watching practice. Ian was both flattered by the attention, flustered by the awareness of Mickey’s eyes on him, and increasingly overwhelmed by his endless worries for the boy. 

Rogers had noticed, of course. Rogers always noticed.

“Gallagher.” The drill sergeant’s voice carried across the gym, and Ian jerked, straightening up so his wooden rifle rested more evenly against his shoulder. 

He waited, feeling the dread settle over him, as Rogers strode across the floor, coming to stand stiffly beside him. He stood just a hair closer than necessary, in Ian’s opinion, but he could do nothing but stand there as the older man breathed practically in his ear.

“This has been a disappointing display today, Ian,” he said sternly. “Am I boring you?”

“Sir, no sir,” Ian said, admittedly a little quieter than normally required in drills.

“Is everything alright, son?” Rogers voice lowered slightly, and although Lin was standing extremely still on Ian’s left, no doubt listening in on every word, Rogers continued. “Why don’t you stay after drills, we can have a talk." 

“That’s not necessary—”

“That wasn’t a request, soldier.”

When Rogers turned his back, Ian’s shoulders slumped. He sighed, heavy but silent, as Rogers finished up drills for the afternoon. He dismissed the other cadets, then hollered up at the stands for all onlookers to clear out as well. 

Mickey was the last to creep down the stairs, eyeing Ian as he passed, slowing down to raise his eyebrows.

Ian smiled tiredly. “I’ll meet you out in the hall,” he promised, and after another hesitant moment, Mickey nodded and left.

When Ian turned back, he saw Rogers watching Mickey leave, a thoughtful expression on his face. He didn’t come back to Ian right away, though. He took his time gathering his papers together, collecting all the spare rifles left behind and stacking them in the canvas bag at his feet. Normally he’d order Ian or one of the other cadets to finish up, but Ian had a feeling he was taking his time, letting Ian sweat. Presumably in anticipation, but it was all Ian could do to hold back a Lip-worthy eye roll.

He was tired, and he just wanted to go home with Mickey. Instead, he suspected with increasing certainty, he was stuck here waiting to get propositioned by his ROTC drill sergeant. Resigned, he held his position, back straight since he hadn’t been released at ease yet, and let his mind wander as he waited for Rogers to make his move.

He thought of the other day at the library, when Janice had unexpectedly offered Mickey a job. Something she’d said had stuck with Ian, the idea that Mickey might study library sciences or whatever it was, and the further inference that Mickey might go to college. It had been a shock in the moment, thinking of Mickey doing something so ordinary and yet so unexpected as graduating, and then going on to further schooling.

But maybe it shouldn’t have been, he realized. Ian would have to be blind not to see how well Mickey was doing in tutoring. Mickey had mentioned the possibility of summer school, in a tone of careful excitement that had just about broken Ian’s heart. Privately, Ian suspected the social worker would try to mainstream Mickey next fall. He’d probably be a year or two behind at this point, but if Ian knew anything, it was that Mickey was stubborn enough to push himself back into school.

What gave Ian pause, though, was the image of Mickey doing it alone. Not just high school, but whatever came after. He could probably go to college, and why not? Ian had always harbored indistinct plans of West Point, primarily because it fed into his most soothing, recurring heroic fantasies. He didn’t think of college the way Lip did, or Debbie. College was something he would do so he could join the army as an officer, and even though he enjoyed the daydream, he also suspected he would most likely be enlisting if all else failed.

But if he enlisted after graduation, where would that leave Mickey? 

ROTC and the army had always seemed like a simple, predetermined path whose primary appeal came from its ease of completion. Ian just needed to follow the steps, and he’d get to the prize at the end: Ian Gallagher, Hero.

And he was starting to realize that if he kept following that path, there would no longer be anyplace in his life for Mickey. Making a spot for Mickey was quickly becoming more real and imperative than any glowy, soft-focus fantasy of Ian performing heroic feats on a battlefield. This wasn’t ten years down the line. Mickey needed him _now_. Ian’s plans no longer felt as easy to follow as they had before a year ago. 

His mind on the future, Ian didn’t notice Rogers was beside him again until the drill sergeant rested a hand on Ian’s shoulder. Against his will, Ian jumped, which made Rogers chuckle.

“At ease, soldier,” he said genially.

Rogers was blond with thick hair that came down to a low hairline on his forehead. He was around Kash’s age, stocky and carelessly handsome. He wasn’t necessarily Ian’s type, but he could objectively see the appeal, although right now he felt mostly impatient, wishing it was already fifteen minutes from now and he was meeting Mickey out in the hall.

“Was that your friend, watching you on the bleachers?” The question caught Ian off-guard and he looked up at Rogers in surprise. It took him a second to realize he was talking about Mickey. 

“Um. Yes, sir.” 

“He seems like a close friend,” Rogers said conversationally. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Yes, sir.” Ian shrugged internally. He didn’t see much point in denying it, even if Rogers seemed to enjoy trying to make him squirm.

“I just want to make sure you’re not getting distracted,” Rogers said. His hand was still on Ian’s shoulder. It felt like an iron, heat seeping from his fingers through Ian’s light ROTC-issue T-shirt.

“No, sir.”

“You’re a special kid.” At that, Rogers leaned closer. He smelled like cologne. Nice cologne, actually, but Ian was more interested in the fresh, borderline-unwashed smell of half-wild neighbor boys these days, really. “I can’t help but take an interest in you. And I want you to trust me.” 

“Yes, sir,” Ian replied, helplessly, because he couldn’t quite tell Rogers to back off, not yet. He wasn’t necessarily doing anything he couldn’t plausibly deny, and Ian sighed internally, waiting for that inevitable moment.

“It’s a new army these days, but a lot of the same prejudices remain. You need to be careful, Ian. You need to learn to keep things to yourself.” The hand on Ian’s shoulder clenched, squeezing the muscle there appraisingly. Ian gritted his teeth, holding still. “I would hate for any rumors to spread. You can always come talk to me, if you think that might a problem. If you need to blow off some steam.”

The corners of Ian’s mouth began to turn down involuntarily, unhappily.

“I don’t think so, sir,” he said, and at that, Rogers went alert.

“What’s that, soldier?”

“I said, I don’t think so, _sir_ ,” Ian repeated, his voice stronger this time. He was starting to get angry, and most of all he wanted Rogers’ hand off his shoulder. He rolled his back subtly, trying to give him a hint, but Rogers hung on, more stubbornly now. 

“You have too much potential to throw it away on some youthful rebellion,” he insisted. Somehow, he was closer to Ian’s face now. “I understand where you are. I’ve been there. I want to help you deal with these...urges.”

Rogers adjusted his stance so the toe of his boot collided gently with Ian’s own shoe, tapping twice, then going still. It was a sign clear as a bell.

Ian wanted more than anything to lash out and hit the guy. He wanted to shout at him that he was fucking sixteen, why did men like him think boys like Ian were fair game? _What was Ian doing wrong?_ It was maddening. 

He had a feeling Rogers could probably take him down if it came to a fistfight, he was much firmer and more muscled than Ian, but right now Ian felt fueled by rage more than anything. He had a brief impression of what Mickey must feel like when he went into one of his berserker rages, armed with nothing but the blistering heat of anger lighting his nerves up, driving him to fling himself into the fight, even if it meant getting suspended from school or kicked out of ROTC entirely. Mickey would fight, he knew.

But it was the thought of Mickey that made Ian begin to power down just as quickly as he’d been winding himself up. Mickey was waiting for him outside. He couldn't afford to go nuclear, even if Rogers' fleshy, entitled face made it tempting. 

“I need to go,” Ian said stiffly. He shook his shoulder more noticeably this time, but still Rogers held on. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Ian,” Rogers said, his voice sounding legitimately sad.

Ian lowered his voice to a pointed, hard murmur. “Leave me alone.” For a second he thought Rogers didn’t hear him, but then, his hand squeezed harder on Ian’s shoulder for a moment. Then it disappeared. Rogers stepped back. 

“You’re suspended from practice for the next week,” he said, voice formal and strident once again, like he hadn’t just been cruising Ian like they were in a bus station bathroom. “Work on that attitude before you get back here.”

Ian moved away quickly, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing on the suspension. He had a feeling that if pressed, Rogers wasn’t even going to log it officially anyway. He wouldn’t have any real way to explain it. This was just Rogers telling Ian to fall in line, just like Kash telling him not to come back to work anymore after they broke up had been. 

Just another older guy telling Ian what he was worth, if he didn’t want to play ball.

Ian couldn’t help but wonder how many guys like that waited for him in the army. He had a feeling it was more than just Rogers, and just like that, he needed out. He needed Mickey.

Without waiting for any further instructions from Rogers, Ian walked quickly out of the gym. 

Mickey was sitting against a bank of lockers in the middle of the hall, his knees bent high enough to rest his book upon them. He was frowning as he read, some book about the adventures of a kidnapped boy on a pirate ship in Scotland, if memory served.

Ian was calling out to him before he was halfway down the hall.

Mickey looked up, eyes dazed like he was emerging from deep underwater. “Hey,” he said, watching Ian hurry up to him. He blinked, eyes narrowing in focus. “Everything okay?”

Without bothering with a response, Ian crouched down and fell forward, attacking Mickey’s mouth with a kiss. Mickey made a startled noise, grabbing hold of the back of Ian’s neck with both hands to steady himself, but he didn’t pull away. 

It didn’t matter to Ian that they were in the middle of a high school hallway, albeit a deserted high school hallway, or that Rogers could walk out of the gym at any moment. He couldn’t really think past the taste of Mickey’s tongue in his mouth, the feel of his slightly chapped lips working earnestly against Ian’s mouth, trying to keep up with the nearly frantic pace Ian had set.

When he moved down to kiss his way up Mickey’s throat, pausing at the thin skin behind his ear to suck and bite, Mickey threw his head back, moaning a little.

“Ian,” he breathed. 

Ian pulled back just enough to whisper in Mickey’s ear, “Come to the bathroom with me.”

Mickey was red-faced and out of breath, but he nodded obediently, letting Ian haul him up from the ground and drag him down the hall toward the bathrooms.

Ian bypassed the student bathrooms, shoving open the door of a staff bathroom and locking it behind them as soon as Mickey was inside. 

“Ian,” Mickey said, sounding concerned. He cupped Ian’s face in his hands, peering into his eyes, and no one Ian had been with had ever looked at him like that before. Surely not Kash, or Roger Spikey or the handful of guys he’d fooled around with after school. Definitely not Rogers, hypothetically, if Ian had agreed to whatever he was trying to plot back in the gym. 

It was just Mickey, really, who looked at Ian that way. Like he was the most important thing, not just his body or his youth or his permanent position as Gallagher Middle Child, but _himself_ , specifically.

Ian never wanted Mickey to feel like Ian didn’t want him. It abruptly became vitally important to Ian that Mickey know that, that he know how important he was to Ian. More important than any other asshole from his past, than his best friend, more important than his own family, even, if it came down to it. If he was forced to choose.

“Mickey,” he muttered, and kissed him again, crowding him back into the door, running his hands up and down his sides, holding tight to his bony hips. 

There was a clatter, and Ian realized Mickey had dropped his book so he could wind his arms up around Ian’s neck. He whined quietly, tugging Ian down, bringing a leg up to wrap around Ian’s hip. Anything to bring him closer, to anchor him down.

Ian let him, bending his knees to accommodate his height, groaning when he felt Mickey’s cock getting hard and pressing insistently against Ian’s thigh. He shifted, and then they were grinding together, both breaking free of the kiss so they could groan, Ian pressing his face tight into the crook of Mickey’s neck, breathing deeply. Loving his smell, so much better than cologne or any other smell he could think of, because it was Mickey.

Mickey being Mickey, he couldn’t help but fight Ian for dominance after a while, using his crooked leg to hook onto Ian’s knee, making him stumble and then taking advantage of his unbalance to whirl them around, slamming Ian’s back against the door. 

Ian barked out a laugh in surprise, loving the way Mickey’s eyes were wide and dilated nearly black, drinking Ian in like he was drowning. 

He leaned back just enough to tear at the zipper of Mickey’s jeans, lick his own palm thoroughly, and wrap Mickey’s cock in a firm grip, loving the burning-hot feel of his skin in his palm

Mickey gasped, biting down on the hinge of Ian’s jaw. Ian sucked in a breath, his vision going a little hazy with how turned on his was. With how enamored he was with the boy in his arm.

He wanked Mickey steadily, determinedly, barely noticing he was rutting against his hip until Mickey shuddered, grabbing on to Ian’s ass so he could guide him more firmly. They could both only gasp for a while, Mickey thrusting into Ian’s tight hand, Ian jerking clumsily against him, pressing their mouths together but not really kissing, mostly just breathing unevenly against each other. 

Ian brought his other hand down, gripping Mickey with both hands, jerking tight and speeding up, and Mickey whimpered, biting at Ian’s bottom lip. His back arched and he rested his head on Ian’s shoulder, a soft, high-pitched sigh escaping from his mouth.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered into the damp hair at the nape of Ian’s neck. Ian barely heard him over his own panting breaths and racing heart, but when he did, he went still, if only for a moment.

“I won’t,” Ian said, gathering Mickey up more tightly against him, giving him the contact and pressure Mickey seemed to crave so much these days.

“Please,” Mickey begged. 

The desperation in his voice was too much, like he expected Ian to be ripped from his arms at any second. Ian quieted him with a kiss that quickly turned sloppy,

“I’m not leaving you,” Ian promised, panting, rocking his hips into Mickey as he jerked him with both hands. “I’m not, Mickey, I love you—fuck, I love you.”

 _You’re mine now,_ he promised silently. _You’ll always be mine._ But he couldn’t get the words out, the intensity of his feelings and how close he was to coming blocking out everything but the need to keep Mickey close, to hold on to his cock and drive them both helpless, until Mickey was yowling into his ear and pulsing over his hand. Ian just had enough time to lean back, ripping open his jeans to pull himself out and finish off as Mickey drooped against him, watching him tiredly, his face sweaty and pink. 

Afterward, Mickey leaned against Ian, and Ian locked his knees, supporting them both for the moment.

He wanted to tell Mickey his changing opinion about joining the army. He wanted to tell him that everything was different. He could feel Mickey trembling against him though, lightly, probably from exertion, but Ian couldn’t trouble him with his own plans for the future, not yet. 

He cupped the back of Mickey’s hot neck, squeezing firmly. “I’m not leaving you,” he said again. “No matter what.”

He felt Mickey sigh against him, and he couldn’t tell if it was in relief or acceptance or something else, something bleaker. Regardless, he held Mickey against the door until they both caught their breath again.

 

***

 

It took Mickey a few weeks at therapy after seeing his dad in jail before he could tell Dr. Tran what Terry had revealed to him. Even then, the words were halting, and it had only been after he had tried to draw the same picture, over and over, ruining five different sheets of paper and finally shoving the coffee table in front of him away in a huff.

“Problems?” Dr. Tran asked gently.

Mickey glared down at his latest picture. There were three figures huddled together in the corner, one of them thick and stocky, and a smaller figure, huddled in the opposite corner. Between them stood a dark, shadowy box. 

He couldn’t get the shading right, or the feeling behind it. It looked like a cartoon. It didn’t reflect the dark, tangled reactions within him, or the fact that the most startling result of meeting with Terry had been the opening of the floodgates of his memory.

He remembered so much, now, and it made him pine for the days when they were nothing more than brief, indistinct flashes, harmless as light déjà vu.

When he glanced up, he saw Dr. Tran was still watching him.

“What do you have there?” he asked. From behind his desk, he peered at the drawing on top, and Mickey reluctantly picked it up, displaying it for the therapist’s review. 

“That’s more people than you usually draw,” Dr. Tran noted. “Who are they? Do you know?”

Grudgingly, Mickey pointed out the characters. The smaller figure huddled small by himself: “That’s me.” The stocky man: “That’s my dad.” The other figures: “The guys—the Russians." It sounded ridiculous to say out loud, but he made himself repeat it anyway, leaning into the absurdity of it all. "The Russians who took me." 

At that, Dr. Tran’s eyebrows rose. “The Russians? Who are the Russians?”

The temptation to deflect, to refuse to elaborate, was strong. But it also felt pretty useless at this point. His dad was no longer hiding it, and Mickey could remember their voices somewhat now, the harsh, guttural Russian when they moved him to a different location, or brought him food, or shoved him in the trunk of the car. There was no use pretending like he didn’t know, when he’d the whole point of this had been to remember.

Slowly, haltingly, he told Dr. Tran what Terry had said. Hearing his voice repeat the story, Mickey couldn’t ignore how asinine the whole thing was, how the inane prideful posturing of a collection of adult men had resulted in Mickey as the unwitting casualty. 

When he was done, Dr. Tran hadn’t said a word. He was watching Mickey

“My dad never gave a shit about me,” Mickey finished on a bitter flourish, when Dr. Tran still hadn’t said anything. Because that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? That no matter how guilt-stricken Terry had behaved in the beginning, it had all been an illusion. And it made Mickey feel like a punk, for believing that Terry cared, that the three years thinking Mickey was gone had changed him in anyway. He was still the selfish bully he’d always been. Mickey was a fool to think he could change.

At his desk, Dr. Tran was frowning. It was a surprising display of emotion from him, really. It made Mickey sit up, suddenly alert.

“I’m very, very sorry to hear that, Mickey,” he said after a while, almost fervent in his sincerity.

“It’s okay,” Mickey said automatically, thrown by how solemn Dr. Tran was being.

“No, it’s not. I thought visiting him might give you some closure, knowing that the men who hurt you were gone, but I should’ve anticipated this possibility.” He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, then looked back at Mickey. “I’m very sorry.” 

Mickey shrugged, looking back down at the drawing in his hand. Maybe if he used different colors for the figures, that would help make it look more real. Make it look more like how he saw the image in his head. 

“Do you know how you were found?”

The question was sudden and startled Mickey out of his focus on the drawing and he looked up at Dr. Tran, puzzled.

“The police,” Mickey said warily, after a moment. “Investigators. They dug me up.” Hearing himself speak the words was jarring. They conjured up a horrible picture, and he made himself push it away, unable to think about it.

“Yes, but how did they find you? How did they know where to look?” 

Mickey shrugged. He’d never really thought about it.

“One of the kidnappers called your dad,” Dr. Tran said evenly. “According to the investigation report in your file, they think he panicked at the eleventh hour, when they decided to deal with you permanently. So he called your dad, told him what they’d done with you, and your dad called the police with tip. If your dad hadn’t called, there’s no way they would’ve found you in time.” 

That made Mickey frown. He stared at his hands, pressing them flat against the surface of the table. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that information.

“It sounds like your father was incredibly selfish when it came to dealing with the police in the first place, and prioritized his own wellbeing over cooperating and giving the investigators all the information they needed.” Mickey waited, because this wasn’t news. He wondered why Dr. Tran even bothered to put it into words. “It also sounds like in the heat of the moment, when faced with a second chance to save you, your dad put your wellbeing above his own, and took the risk of calling the police.”

“It wasn’t a risk,” Mickey argued.

“It felt that way to your dad, at least. It was why he never told the police what had really happened in the first place.”

“Why are you defending him?” Mickey’s throat felt thick all of sudden. His nose was burning. He regretted bringing up his dad with the therapist. He hated listening to Dr. Tran methodically lay out Terry’s potential though process, like it made sense, like it was logical.

“I’m not defending him,” Dr. Tran said. He laughed hollowly. “To be honest, I’m trying to understand him myself. I want to understand him, because I want to help you, but I’m struggling, because what you’ve told me makes it difficult to maintain objectivity.”

It felt like the veil of therapist jargon was beginning to fall, and Mickey started to lose the thread. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying—I’m angry for you. I’m angry at your father. I’m angry at how unfair this is. You deserve better.”

Mickey was too stunned to reply at once. Everything Dr. Tran was saying felt completely foreign from any previous therapy session they’d had. It was unnerving, but at the same time, Mickey felt a tiny spark of validation, that what his dad had done was so horrible that it had shaken even the unflappable Dr. Tran. It made Mickey feel more justified in his own confused betrayal.

After a while though, he forced himself to speak. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

He was further surprised at how Dr. Tran looked, even as he was smiling, close-lipped, at Mickey. It was a sad smile, Mickey decided. 

“Nothing,” he said. “You don’t have to do anything. I just want you to know that while I’ve worked with a lot of victims of childhood trauma, yours is a truly unique case. And while I think all trauma survivors are, as a rule, very brave, I want you to know I’ve never worked with someone like you before. You’re... indomitable.”

“What does that mean?”

“Unbreakable.”

To Mickey’s increasing alarm, he saw Dr. Tran’s eyes had gone wet. Oh god, he had no idea what he was supposed to do if his therapist started crying, did he try and comfort him? Wait until Dr. Tran looked away and flee the scene? The fleeing option felt right, he’d probably do that, he just needed to bide his time, probably—

“I’m sorry, I rarely get emotional during sessions, it’s not fair to you,” Dr. Tran said, blinking and looking down. When he looked up again, his face was clear. Mickey wondered how the hell he did that. If he didn't know better, he'd think Dr. Tran hadn’t been about to cry, or had possibly never cried, ever, in his entire life.

“It’s okay,” Mickey said stiffly, on reflex.

That made Dr. Tran chuckle, at least. “It’s not okay. I think I’ve just become very attached to you, Mickey. I’m invested in your recovery.”

It felt like Dr. Tran’s version of a pep talk, which was weird enough on its own, but at the same time, it was oddly comforting, in its awkwardness. Even Dr. Tran looked a little embarrassed, but he didn’t take it back.

“I think we should probably call time on today’s session, don’t you?” Dr. Tran said, smiling self-deprecatingly. “Next week, we can focus on more coping tools to help with your anger toward your father, and how to start making action plans going forward. For your recovery.” 

Mickey stood to leave, but when he reached the door, he turned back. “Dr. Tran?”

“Yes, Mickey?”

“I’m not sorry I went to visit my dad.” He didn’t know how true it was until he said it. He was reeling, sure, but things were clearer now. His memories were horrifying, of course, but they were his again. Those were gifts in and of themselves, he was realizing. 

“I’m glad,” Dr. Tran said. He smiled, and he seemed more himself, now. Impassively serene yet again.

The corner of Mickey's mind whispered about other places in Indiana, other harbingers of memories. Just at the corner, though, and he tried to push it away as he said goodbye to Dr. Tran. 

When Mickey left Dr. Tran’s office, Vicky was waiting for him outside in the parking lot, finishing up some work in her car. She smiled when she saw him approaching. She’d been smiling a lot at him lately, since they’d returned from visiting his dad. She seemed guilty. Mickey got the sense that she regretted taking him to visit Terry. He didn’t think it mattered now, but a part of him appreciated her concern.

She chatted idly as they drove, accepting Mickey’s disinclination to talk, and he mostly ignored her, letting her words rush over and round him while he turned his gaze inward.

As Vicky drove him back to the South Side, Mickey thought about memories, and what they meant, whether the ones he was regaining were trustworthy or whether they were exaggerated, puffed-up recollections of trauma that meant less than the empty nothingness he’d been able to recall before.

Most of all, Mickey couldn’t get one specific idea out of his head. At first it seemed ridiculous, and even frightening, and he pushed it away. The longer they drove, though, the more it kept popping up, until he let himself examine it. The more he examined it, the more he wondered, _could he_? Was it something he could do?

By the time they reached the Milkovich house, he’d made a decision. Glancing at Vicky out of the corner of his eye, he quietly began to plot.

 

***

 

When Ian got to the Milkovich house, stomping to warm his feet through his thin sneakers on the porch even as the icy winter chill sank into them, he could hear the argument raging in the living room.

He knocked on the front door, but no one answered. Up close, he could hear what sounded like a woman’s voice, and the cacophony of Mickey’s brothers, and then, lower, but just as heated—Mickey. Mickey was fighting. 

Too worried to wait for anyone to notice him and let him in, Ian pushed open the door.

In the living room, Mickey was squaring off with Vicky, both standing across the carpet from each other, seething. Iggy and Colin were between them, looking angry and bewildered by turns, and Joey was on the couch, desperately trying to watch the hockey game that Vicky was blocking, craning his neck to see around her whenever she shifted, throwing her arms out to make a point.

Ian let the door close quietly beside him, and when he looked down, he saw Mandy sitting on the floor against the wall, watching the battle unfold with weary eyes. It was startling, seeing Mandy in Mickey’s usual spot. 

“Hey,” he said on an awkward whisper, trying not to draw attention to himself but too surprised not to acknowledge Mandy at his feet.

She looked up at him. Her eyes and mouth were tight. “Welcome to hell,” she said morosely. 

“I’m already catching a lot of heat for letting you stay the night after visiting your father,” Vicky was saying. “My supervisor is even saying we might be liable for letting you visit him in the first place.” 

“It should be my decision,” Mickey insisted. “I want to go. I want to see it. I want to see where I was kept.”

At that moment, he caught Ian’s eye across the room. Ian hesitated, wanting to go to Mickey’s side but unwilling to interrupt. He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a sign, but Mickey just shook his head minutely. It was comforting in a way, seeing that Mickey was upset but not out of control. 

Cautiously, Ian settled beside Mickey on the wall, not wanting to leave Mickey but attempting to blend into the background.

“He’s not a fucking baby,” Iggy interjected. His sudden loyalty surprised Ian, but he’d noticed all of Mickey’s brothers had been oddly and intensely devoted since Mickey had visited Terry in jail. Like they were trying to prove something to Mickey, that they weren’t like their dad, after all.

“Yeah, he’s a grown-ass man,” Colin added hotly.

Vicky rolled her eyes. “He’s a minor. He’s a traumatized minor, who was recently re-traumatized visiting his father, and now he wants to go back to Indiana and see the spot where he was kept, and be traumatized for a third time?” 

Unconsciously, Ian sucked in a breath. Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered to Mandy, “Does she mean—does he want to go to—”

“Yep,” Mandy whispered back, flatly, resigned. 

“It’s my decision,” Mickey insisted yet again. "I need to see it. I need to know—it's like with my dad. I need to know for sure that it really happened, that what I remember is _real_."

Vicky seemed to be actively working to lower her voice. “I told you, when I ran it by my supervisor, they had a fit.” She shook her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think I’m going to get approval.”

“I don’t need approval,” Mickey said. “I’ll just go.”

Vicky’s eyes went wide in alarm. She took a jerky step forward, one hand reached out pleadingly. “Mickey. Please. You don’t understand the precarious position you’re in right now. With your father in jail, with his preliminary trial coming up, there’s a lot of attention on you now that wasn’t there a few months ago, when things were finally starting to cool down. You can’t just go disappear to Indiana again without express approval by the department. My supervisor could bump me off the case.” 

Mickey didn't look convinced. His eyes darted to Ian's, who could only raise his eyebrows, trying to look as comforting as he could from across the room. Ian wanted to intervene, but then, he also wanted to let Mickey argue this on his own. It was his fight.  

“I know you don’t believe me, but I’m looking out for your best interests,” Vicky said. “Dr. Tran said you’re making process, but you still need time. Supervision! And I can’t go with, and he can’t go with, and you can’t go alone.” 

“You can’t stop me.” Mickey crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. 

“Foster care,” Vicky blurted out desperately. “Possibly in-patient treatment. Maybe even a long-term care facility, if the department decides you’re regressing, or you’re in danger of regressing, or if they think you’re endangering yourself. None of these options are necessarily bad on their own, but I’m just saying—”

“I’m not going back to the hospital,” Mickey said sharply. His face had gone white except for two bright circles of color high on his cheekbones. “I’m not going to some fucking foster family.”

“I’m not saying you _will_.” Vicky shrugged, then rubbed at her eyes. She seemed incredibly tired. “But then, maybe I’ve got blinders on. Maybe it would be better for you. Maybe the treatment plan I’ve been working on isn’t what’s best.” 

Every Milkovich in the room made sounds of varying betrayal. Vicky threw her hands in the air, noticing immediately that she was losing the room.

“I’m not the enemy here!” she said loudly. “Family Services is not the enemy! All we want is to help Mickey.” She looked at Mickey beseechingly. “All I want is to help _you_. And I don’t think right now is the right time to go back to Indiana, especially if any of you have plans to attend his hearings and the trial coming up. It’s just a lot. I think it could be too much.”

It was Joey that spoke up, finally giving up on watching the hockey game apparently in favor of contributing his two cents. “If our dad." He scowled, interrupting himself to correct, "If _that asshole_ really sold Mickey out, then killing the bastards who kept him doesn’t make up for shit. He can rot in that fucking state for all I care. I’d be happy never to cross the state line ever again.”

What Joey was describing was no worse than Ian had suspected, but hearing it actually confirmed, whether through the Milkovich brother grapevine or from Mickey himself, was still chilling. Ian couldn't even find it in himself to be upset that Mickey hadn’t told him first. He just wished there was nothing to tell at all.

In the ensuing silence, Joey turned back to the TV, lying partially across the couch so he could get a better view.

“Joey’s right. Fuck that asshole,” Iggy said. He looked at Mickey then, communicating something silently. “But I say it's Mickey’s call. If this is what he needs, than it’s what he needs.”

Vicky seemed to be waffling. Ian wasn’t sure where he stood on it, feeling five steps behind the whole argument. The idea of visiting the place where Mickey was kept, where Mickey almost died, made him feel ill. But the determined look on Mickey’s face, the way he held his hands carefully flat at his sides instead of clenching them into fists, made Ian think maybe Iggy was right. Maybe this wasn’t any of their decisions anyway, just Mickey's. 

But then Vicky shook her head, looking decisive. “I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. I can take it back to my supervisor, try to get clearance, but with your dad’s trial coming up, I think the department’s going to be worried about it becoming a media circus.”

“So you’re telling me,” Mickey said, slowly, deliberately, filled with barely-restrained rage, “that I can be kidnapped, and kept like an animal for three years, and then spat back out to pick up the pieces, to try and be normal again, but now the only thing keeping me from seeing the place where I was kept, coming face to face with it, is _adult supervision_?” 

Before Vicky could open her mouth, Mickey was yelling, his words tumbling over himself, his voice ragged. “You act like because I’m still young, I need a bunch of grownups to save me, to make me whole again, but where was the fucking supervision when I was being kept in a shed in the middle of winter, or when it got so hot I could barely breathe? Where were the fucking adults when I was getting buried alive in a box?” His voice cracked and he fell silent, his chest rising and falling jerkily. 

Vicky looked at him somberly. “You’re right, Mickey. We all failed you. And I’m sorry.” She exhaled slowly. “And all I can do now is what I think is in your best interests, to keep you safe going forward. So I can’t let you go back, not right now. Not without approval.”

“That’s bullshit,” Mickey declared. Before Vicky or anyone else could response, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut to his bedroom.

Iggy and Colin watched him go, then turned stony glares upon Vicky, who help her ground. “I’m serious. If I find out one of you helped him go without supervision, I’ll have your asses.” She held their gazes, looking threatening for a moment, then deflated. “Shit.” 

Ian watched as she left, her shoulder hunched. She looked worn out. When she left, Iggy and Colin collapsed warily on the couch on either side of Joey. Iggy looked in the direction of Mickey’s room, uncertain, like he wanted to follow him.

Ian understood the impulse. He wanted nothing more than to go to Mickey, but beside him, Mandy was shaking. 

“Goddamnit,” she muttered. “This is all so fucked up.” 

Ian felt like the world’s worst best friend, yearning to run after Mickey and wrap him up in his arms and comfort him until everything else faded away, even while Mandy was falling apart beside him.

Resisting magnetic pull toward Mickey for the moment, he hugged Mandy to his side. “I know,” he said. 

“It’s weird,” Mandy said after she caught her breath. “For a long time, when my mom was never around, and my dad was always an asshole, I used to think it’d be so cool to have a parent who actually gave a shit.” 

“Tell me about it,” Ian said. He leaned his head against Mandy’s, sighing.

“And it’s not that I think Vicky’s awful, I think she’s trying to protect Mickey, to be that parent in a way, but _fuck_. All he’s had his whole life is people take control away from him, since he was kidnapped, and since he's been back. Maybe going back there, seeing where he was kept, maybe it’s not the best idea, but it’s _his_ _idea_. If he thinks he wants to, than that should be it.” 

Again, Ian felt torn. He agreed with Mandy in theory, but to the visceral place inside him that wanted to protect Mickey at all costs, the idea of letting him go back there, where he’d been hurt and nearly killed, left for dead in a box underground, made every instinct scream in protest. 

"I don't even know where the place is," Ian said weakly.

“If he wanted to go, the address is on the internet,” Iggy offered suddenly from the couch.

“It is?” Ian asked.

“Well, not the actual house number, but it’s not too hard to find. It’s in the middle of nowhere in Indiana. Some town called Milton. There’s only a couple hundred people there.”

“Why the hell were you looking up the address?” Mandy asked. “Why do you know so much about—what the fuck, Milton?”

There was a long pause. Iggy looked sheepish, and finally Colin answered. “We were thinking of going up there and burning it down.” 

“Good thing we didn’t,” Joey volunteered. “If Mickey still wants to see it, I guess.”

Ian nodded at that, cautiously impressed at the Milkovich brothers' need to express their anxiety through destruction. It reminded Ian of how Mickey had burned down the old factory building. He felt weirdly nostalgic thinking about it. Maybe he was losing his goddamn mind.

“We’d have to be smart about it,” Mandy said quietly. She was frowning, her thinking face on, like she was trying to see around the corners of a plan. “We wouldn’t be able to take our car, and he wouldn’t be able to miss any of his appointments. Vicky couldn’t know.”

“Wait,” Ian interrupted, “are we really thinking about this? Are we really doing it?”

“If you leave early in the morning, you could probably get back before the social work lady would even think to come visit,” Iggy said speculatively.

Colin nodded. “Out and back, home in time for lunch.”

“If we get caught, it might be bad for Mickey,” Ian felt obligated to point out. “Vicky might have to tell her boss. She said Child Services might intervene. 

Mandy shrugged. “Well, Mickey has a point. Where the fuck was Child Services when he was taken? Before, when our dad was fucking using him as collateral?” She stopped, choked, and Ian’s chest ached at this new piece of knowledge, another panel in the macabre tapestry of Terry Milkovich’s culpability in the kidnapping of his own son. 

Ian had the urge to call Lip, or even Fiona, to ask them what they thought. But what if they had the same thought as Vicky—wait for permission, let the adults decide what’s best, keep Mickey from doing what he wants to do?

On the one hand, it was tempting, to abdicate responsible to a Certified Grownup. On the other hand, Ian thought of Mickey’s wavering voice, how hard he fought to keep his hands relaxed even in the face of his anger.

“If that’s what Mickey wants,” Ian said slowly, “then okay. But only if it’s what he wants.” 

“We can find you a car,” Iggy chimed in.

“I’ll get you the direction written out,” Colin offered.

Ian looked at Mandy, and without saying a word, they came to the same silent agreement. They pulled themselves to their feet and walked to Mickey’s room.

Inside, Mickey was not wedged between the bed and the dress in his usual spot on the floor. Surprisingly, he was curled into a ball on the bed itself, squeezing his knees to his chest. 

“Mickey?” Ian said. He walked to the bed cautiously, sitting beside Mickey and waiting for him to acknowledge them. He seemed lost in his own head at first, but when Ian hesitantly touched his knee, Mickey pitched to the side, curling into Ian’s side. Ian wrapped both arms around him immediately, wishing he could take him away from all this. 

“Mick,” Mandy said softly from his other side. She put a hand on his back, resting it over his spine gently. “We can take you there.”

Mickey looked up, alert. “To...the place? Where I was kept?” 

Mandy met Ian’s eye, and they nodded. It was Ian who said, “If it’s what you want. Are you sure it’s what you want?”

Mickey nodded urgently, looking deeply grateful. Then he buried his face in Ian’s side again. “Thank you,” he whispered into the fabric of Ian’s T-shirt.

As Ian help him with both arms, watching Mandy’s worried expression, he hoped Mickey’s wasn’t thanking him for making the wrong decision.

 

***

 

Mandy drove to Indiana this time, driving impossibly slow in the right lane the entire way, hands braced at ten and two on the broad steering wheel of the enormous Silverado truck the Milkovich brothers had liberated for the trip. She ignored the angry honking of passing drivers speeding by on their left, glancing down worriedly at the scrawled directions from Colin every so often.

Mickey barely noticed. As before when they’d driven with Vicky, Ian sat in back with Mickey, the bench seats cramped in the oversized truck, and let Mickey hang on him. He’d worry about being too needy later. Right now, he just needed the assurance that Ian was going to be with him, for this. That he wasn’t leaving.

“This is probably going to be rough,” Ian told him as they passed the border into Indiana. “I mean, I know that's an understatement, fuck. But I'm just saying. We can always turn back. You say the word. It’s fine.” 

He squeezed Mickey’s hand reassuringly, and from the driver’s seat, Mandy sent him a small smile in the rear view. “Ian’s right. You’re the boss. You’re in charge, here.”

Mickey nodded. It was nice to be in charge for once, after everything.

Eventually they entered Milton. Iggy had been right, it was a tiny town, frozen and silent this deep in winter, like it was hibernating. They passed through the center of town and then toward the outer limits, cutting by sparse stands of trees but more often than that only wide-open abandoned fields, farmland in earlier days, now barren fields.

“I think this is it,” Mandy murmured after a while, turning right onto an unmarked road. Mickey had no idea how she’d spotted it. Even she seemed unsure, following it as it twisted down a path, through a scrubby forest then out into a clearer field. 

The road eventually transformed from pavement into gravel. Mandy eased up on the gas as they crept along, no longer passing any other houses. They went over a slight hill, curving around, and then they could see a property with a house at the end of the road. It stood in the middle of a wide, unremarkable field.

Overhead, the winter sky was grey and overcast. They pulled up to the gate outside the house and Mandy took the key out of the ignition. They sat in the car for a while, staring out onto the property.

“I think this is it,” Mandy said again, somewhat unnecessarily.

Mickey’s heart was pounding, but a part of him felt defiant. He was nervous, sure, but the louder, more forceful part of him was angry that he needed to be. That this place still held such power over him.

“Anything ringing any bells?” Ian asked tentatively, but Mickey shook his head.

“I don’t think I ever saw much of the outside,” he said. His voice sounded like a croak and he cleared his throat. “Let’s go. We don’t have a lot of time.” 

They piled out of the car, Ian and Mandy standing on either side of him like soldiers, practically propelling him forward as they crept to the edge of the property line to peer through the gate. 

Mickey was a little surprised at how small it all looked. He’d expected something shadowy and looming, something filled with foreboding like in his drawings. What he was seeing now was dilapidated and tired-looking, empty of any sinister personality.

It was just a house. Just a house on a patch of land. He couldn’t see a shed anywhere, but hopefully, it would be just as unremarkable. He needed it to be.

There was still police tape attached to the fencing in front of the house. It looked old and withered, like someone had forgotten to remove it. Ian kicked at the rusted fence gate until it gave slightly, then heaved it open with the force of his body, holding it open for Mandy, and then more slowly behind her, Mickey, to squeeze through.

At the top of the short gravel driveway the house slouched, painted faded blue, old siding long since turned from white to dirty gray. Mickey didn’t recognize it, but he also didn’t think he’d seen it before. If he’d ever been inside, he’d been blindfolded.

They skirted around the house, Ian and Mandy following Mickey’s lead as he picked his way slowly across the property. As they circled the house, the shed was visible in the backyard.

“Holy shit,” Mandy said under her breath. Mickey darted a glance in her direction and she was staring, open-mouthed, at the shed.

On Mickey’s other side, Ian was breathing shallowly. He was holding Mickey’s wrist lightly, his fingers curled around the thin bones there like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed the touch. 

Mickey didn’t mind, not really. He felt numb, seeing it now. He supposed he was probably overwhelmed. He couldn’t tell. The blood was rushing in his ears, and he did his best to keep his breathing under control.

They walked, three abreast, until they were a few feet form the outside of the shed. Tattered yellow police tape hung over the entrance to the shed as well, but the door was ajar. Mickey could see inside, but he didn’t move any closer. He didn’t want to go inside. He had a feeling if he did, he would never stop having nightmares later about the door slamming shut behind him and locking him in his prison again.

He shook himself, skittering away mentally from the thought of such a fate.

They stood outside of the shed for a long time. Ian and Mandy didn’t leave his side, taking it in silently. He could barely blink, staring at it, how small it was compared with how much bigger, more hulking and threatening, it had seemed in his mind. He could just see the corner of a mattress peeking from the corner inside, but other than that it was empty. He knew it was, without needing to confirm it with his eyes. 

Just beyond the shed there was a wide expanse of dirt, no grass or trees. It looked like land that might’ve been farmed at one point. He wondered if that was where they had tried to bury him. If that was where the police had found him.

He’d seen enough, he decided abruptly. Without a word, he turned around and started back for the fence. Without a word, Ian turned and followed him, Mandy hurrying to catch up on his other side. They walked in silence until they were at the fence again.

Before Ian could kick open the gate so they could squeeze out again, Mickey turned around. One last look, he supposed.

The landscape was frozen solid, frost clinging to sweeps of naked tree limbs, across the tops of grass blades.

He thought it would feel more familiar, but it didn’t.

He thought coming back here would be more terrifying, but it wasn't. The image in his head of this land, of where he was kept, the shed and then the earth where he’d been buried, it had taken on a mythical vastness in his mind for a long time, a shadowed nightmare plane that he rarely visited, too worried he would get lost in it. He didn't feel lost, though. 

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.

It was just a place. The horrible things that happened here felt more like echoes now, fading further and further away. They weren't happening anymore. They almost didn't feel real.

He, on the other hand, was real. He was real, and he was standing here, and he was not dreaming this, or trapped in the memories of this place. He was standing here, in the middle of his past.

He’d never felt so secure in his own body, feeling like energy or light or his own thoughts were moving from the tips of his hair through his head down his neck and ribs to his feet and traveling on into the dirt under his shoes, grounding him there like lightning. A sudden, jerking certainty, almost painful, but vital. Real.

He opened his eyes again. He turned his head slowly, taking it all in.

Behind him, he sensed rather than saw Ian and Mandy shuffling, Ian especially hesitating as he crowded up against his back, obviously resisting every instinct he had that was calling for him to touch Mickey, wrap him up, protect him, keep him safe.

Mickey didn’t realize he was crying until he felt Ian’s hand touch his cheek.

“Mick,” he whispered, coming close enough to wipe at Mickey’s face with the heel of his hand. His other hand cupped Mickey’s jaw, gently, holding him steady.

On his other side, Mandy pressed close, her shoulders bracketing him in just as surely as Ian did, further fortifying him, locking him into his body. In this moment, the idea of drifting away, letting his body take over while his mind went high above the sky, was unthinkable.

It was amazing, really, that he could stand in the middle of this abandoned property in Indiana and feel, if not happy, than calm. At peace. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected to have to battle his memories, fight to death before he could emerge, victorious, stronger than what had happened here.

Instead, there was no need. He’d always been stronger than what had happened here.

“Mickey,” Mandy said quietly, just near his ear. “Are you okay?”

He wanted to answer, to reassure her that he wasn’t upset, he was better than _okay_ , even, but his throat was thick. He was still crying silently, tears coursing down his cheeks. Instead of struggling to get the words out, he nodded roughly, Ian’s hands on his face moving easily with him. He stopped nodding, but he still felt like he was vibrating. Ian pressed his forehead to Mickey’s temple, waiting. Mandy held his hand. Mickey let them touch him. He didn’t try to stop himself from crying. He let it all rush over and around and through him, moving with it even as he stood still.

Quietly, Mickey knew that this moment of serenity would not last. Eventually, possibly sooner rather than later, maybe tomorrow or even in the car ride on the way back to the city, he could feel hopeless or deadened again, overwhelmed by the reality of it all, what had happened, what had been taken from him. This was just one moment. It didn’t solve anything. It didn’t fix who he was. 

He let his muscles relax, closed his eyes again, and leaned against Ian, relishing in how easily he supported Mickey’s weight.

Then, he did his best to memorize the moment anyway. It was happening, and he was in it, with Ian and with Mandy too. He wasn’t smiling, and he was still crying, but buttressed between the two of them, standing before a piece of property that didn't need to have any control over him if he didn't want it to, the moment felt incandescent and inescapably perfect.

For the first time, he felt ready for the days and weeks and months and _years_ , even,that came after this moment. He realized he wasn't crying over what had happened while he was away anymore, but instead the vast potential of what  still lay ahead of him.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys SO MUCH for your patience. I'm sorry this took me so long to post. To be honest, the final few chapters of this story are just really difficult to write, and I hope I did the subject matter justice.
> 
> As always, thank you _so much_ for your support, and your kind words, comments/kudos/hits/tumblr messages, I just can't tell you how much I appreciate it all.


	11. Chapter 11

***

**March**

***

 

Ian was suddenly awake. His chest ached from the sharp intake of air he must’ve taken when he gasped awake, and it took him a moment to orient himself, and then, to realize what had yanked him from sleep.

Behind him, Mickey was whimpering. His knees thrashed and poked Ian in the back of the thigh, then the ass. Ian flipped over, studying Mickey’s face in concern. 

“Mickey?” he whispered, carefully cupping Mickey’s face with one hand. Mickey didn’t wake up. His face was creased in distress, his eyelids fluttering as whatever was tormenting flitted beneath them. “Shhh, it’s okay.” 

Ian shifted closer, curving his body protectively around Mickey’s. Mickey calmed for a moment, muttering to himself. Ian was wide awake now. 

Mickey had been staying over more often since they’d taken their covert trip to Indiana. It was unspoken, so Ian had never really gotten the courage to ask directly, but he got the sense that Mickey felt safer folded against Ian, surrounded by his sleeping brothers in the cramped Gallagher bedroom, than he did in his own room at the Milkovich household.

And for his part, Ian felt immeasurably soothed knowing Mickey was safe, curled up warm and drowsy at Ian’s back, occasionally whuffling like a bear into Ian’s neck throughout the night.

It was strange, but Ian didn’t think he’d seen Mickey have a nightmare before. He was a light sleeper, jumpy and restless, but Ian had never seen him like this. Which was odd, really, when Ian actually thought about it. If anyone had abundant raw material for nightmares, it was Mickey.

Mickey startled again, thrashing in his sleep, kneeing Ian in the stomach this time and making him grunt in surprise.

From across the room, Carl sat up in his bunk bed. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” Ian whispered. “Go back to sleep, buddy.”

From the top bunk, Lip leaned over to meet Ian’s eye with a worried look of his own. “You need a hand?” 

Ian shook his head. “It’s okay.” He turned back to Mickey, pressing his forehead to Mickey's. “Hey, man. You’re okay. Come on, you’re okay.”

With a gasp, Mickey’s eyes opened abruptly, staring at Ian in bewildered shock. He was breathing hard through his nose, nostrils flaring.

“Hey,” Ian said, rubbing his thumb over Mickey’s sharp cheekbone. He hoped it was okay, touching him like this, that it didn’t make him feel suffocated. “You okay?" 

After a long moment, then another, Mickey deflated under Ian’s gentle touch. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, meeting Ian’s gaze tiredly. “Sorry.” His voice was hoarse. 

“Don’t apologize,” Ian said, nudging Mickey’s feet with his own. Mickey kicked back distractedly, huffing. He was quickly returning to normal, and Ian was torn. He wanted Mickey to feel better, but as Mickey calmed down, Ian felt like he was losing the chance to ask him what he’d been dreaming about in the first place.

He bit his lip, deliberating. He’d be lying if he said he hadn't been doing his best not to think of what they’d seen in Indiana. It was at the edge f his mind always, threatening, and Ian tried his best to ignore it, worrying that if he didn't, he'd never be able to let Mickey out his sight again.

He’d gone back and forth since that day, trying to decide if it had been the right thing to do, taking Mickey to see where he’d been held despite Vicky’s arguments. Mickey had been surprisingly serene the entire car ride back, letting Ian hold his hand, not saying much until they were back in Chicago, when he asked if they could have McDonalds for dinner.

Ian and Mandy had both been almost laughably eager to fulfill that simple request, scrambling for loose change in between the seats of the truck and pooling the crinkled bills from their pockets. Huddled together in the plastic booth, Ian had stared at Mickey as he placidly put away two whole containers of French fries, intently looking for any sign of how he was doing, how he was reacting.

When he caught Mandy’s eye across the table, he could tell she was searching for the same thing too. 

Ian and Mandy hadn’t talked about it directly, but they’d started texting each other more frequently in the mornings and evenings, depending on where Mickey spent the night, obliquely checking in with one another without coming right out and saying that was what they were doing.

It made Ian wonder if Mandy was also avoiding all thoughts of the tiny, grubby shed from Indiana, or if she made herself picture it, like exposure therapy. Probably the second one, he figured. She was always a lot braver than he was.

Across from him, Mickey stared sightlessly at Ian’s collarbone. There were dark, tired bruises forming under his eyes, and Ian wasn’t sure how he could look so tired after just waking up. 

“You want to take a walk?” Ian offered into the quiet.

Mickey sighed, then nodded. He hauled himself out of bed, and Ian watched as he pulled on his jeans and a faded Bulls hoodie that must’ve fallen off the back of a truck. 

As he got himself up, Ian shot Mandy a quick text before pocketing his phone: _Morning loser. Rough night._

Lip silently watched them both shuffle out of the room. As he passed, Ian tapped the edge of Lip’s mattress in acknowledgement and left the room with Mickey.

On the way down the stairs, his phone pinged with a message from Mandy: _You’re the loser. It’s barely morning. Everything okay?_

Ian knew Mandy was just looking for a general all clear. Ian watched Mickey hunch his shoulders as he wandered into the bathroom, bleakly wondering if you could ever really know if another person was okay, deep down. He wanted to ask Mickey directly, but he also didn’t want to pressure him into lying. Ian was worried, and he knew Mickey could tell, but he didn’t want it to be Mickey’s job to make Ian feel better. It shouldn’t be Mickey’s job to worry about anyone but himself. 

He thought about it, and texted back: _I think so_. Then he waited for Mickey to finish in the bathroom, and they both headed downstairs, the house dark this early in the morning.

When they reached the kitchen Ian saw Fiona leaning against a countertop, drinking coffee and staring off at nothing. She flinched when Ian’s foot hit the bottom stair, startled to see Ian and Mickey standing unexpectedly before her. 

“What are you doing up?” she asked groggily, straightening up as she turned.

Ian glanced at Mickey, who stayed silent, then shrugged at Fiona. “Couldn’t sleep,” Ian said. He registered Fiona’s tired face, and how early it was. The sun was only just coming up outside. “What are _you_ doing up?” 

Fiona smiled at him, a lifetime of strain peeking through the exhausted expression on her face. “Couldn’t shut my brain off long enough to sleep.” She looked at Mickey then, at the way he leaned against Ian, his eyes on the floor, and she frowned. “Everything okay?” She took a hesitant step forward like she was drawn magnetically to Mickey’s side. She held out a hand, letting it hover over Mickey’s shoulder. When he didn’t jerk away, she touched him gently. “You want some breakfast? I have bacon.” 

Almost despite himself, Mickey perked up at that, then glanced up at Ian, obviously torn.

“We’re going to go take a lap,” Ian said, saving Mickey from having to explain. “Maybe get the bacon started, and I can make the eggs when we get back?” 

Fiona still looked worried but she nodded, accepting this plan. She was always better with a plan. “You got it.” She stepped back and watched them head out the back, Ian snagging their jackets from the hook by the door on his way. 

It was unseasonably warm, even this early in the morning. Ian had a feeling it wouldn’t last, it never did this early in the spring in the Midwest, but he soaked it in anyway, pretending it was here to stay.

Mickey stayed close to his side as they walked, their hips and arms bumping together gently. Ian could feel the anxious questions beginning to bubble at his lips— _What were you dreaming about? Were you back in Indiana? Do you see the shed whenever you closer your eyes?_ — but he bit them down, unwilling to interrupt the silence that seemed to help Mickey relax incrementally the longer they walked.

They turned at the corner toward the abandoned building, leaving the last houses of the neighborhood drowsy and still behind them.

They hopped the fence and trudged up the uneven stairs to the roof. At the top, Ian could see the sun just waking up. Without waiting for Ian, Mickey went to the edge and plopped down, looking over his shoulder impatiently enough that Ian snorted out a laugh and jogged to meet him.

He sat down beside him, leaning back on his hands, focusing on the points of contact between them at their hips, knees, feet. Ian wasn’t always sure what he was doing with Mickey, if he was helping him, if he was doing the right thing to protect him, so he found himself falling back on animal instincts more often than ever now, proximity, body heat, the grounding force of touch.

Mickey sighed loudly, leaning sideways into Ian. “Sorry I woke you up,” he said lowly.

“It’s no big deal,” Ian said back. “Sorry you were having nightmares.” He paused, then dared to ask, “Have you been having them a lot lately?”

Mickey shrugged noncommittally. 

“It’s just—I never really noticed them before.” Ian took a deep breath in, let it out slowly. Listened to the distant sound of cars on the highway, traffic still light at this time of day. “Is it...are you dreaming about...what we saw? When you, me and Mandy went to...that place?”

Mickey shook his head dismissively. He was quiet for a while, and it took all Ian had not to push him for more, but finally Mickey sighed again. “Do you ever think about the future?”

“What, like, what I want to be when I grow up?”

Mickey shrugged minutely, his shoulder brushing against Ian’s side. “Kind of.” 

“Sometimes,” Ian said, truthfully. For the most part, he used to dream almost exclusively of Ian Gallagher, Hero, when it came to fantasies about the future more than anything else, but they were losing steam as ROTC began to lose its luster. He didn’t think about future concerns nearly as much as Lip or Debbie, not with their aspirational thoughts of college and careers one day. Not even like Fiona did, obsessively counting the days until bills were due, or until the next disaster struck. “Do you?” 

“I never used to think about it,” Mickey said softly, like he was confessing a secret. “When I was back there, before, it was like being trapped in time. I couldn’t think back, I couldn’t think forward. Even when I first came home, I never thought about it, where I’d be in a month, in a year. Now I am, though. Thinking about it, all the time practically. Dreaming about it, and it’s freaking me out. It’s weird.”

_And scary_ , seemed to be the unspoken addition. Ian could appreciate that. Not for the first time, the vast well of experience separating them seemed to stretch impossibly far, and Ian felt deeply unqualified to try and bridge it.

Not knowing what else to do in that moment, he dropped his head onto Mickey’s shoulder. After a second, Mickey leaned his head against Ian’s, and they breathed with each other in a steady, easy rhythm.

By now, the sun was just lazily peeking over the edges of the horizon. Ian knew they needed to head back soon, if he wanted to eat the breakfast Fiona was probably preparing and still have time to get ready for school. Mickey had therapy in a few hours too, Ian knew, and Mandy would probably get antsy if she didn’t see her brother before she left for school, too.

Nevertheless, Ian made himself stay still. It felt simpler, staying here, knowing Mickey was close enough to touch and keep safe.

“Thanks for telling me. About what you were dreaming about,” he said into the warm space where Mickey’s neck met his shoulder.

Mickey mumbled something unintelligible back. They sat that way for another twenty minutes. As the tension left Mickey’s body entirely, Ian felt himself relax as well, like they were symbiotically connected, somewhere deep inside where no one else could see.

 

***

 

Mickey was sitting in his usual spot in the teacher's lounge after regular classes let out, Ben in his usual place on the other side of the round table, but it was more than a usual tutoring session this afternoon. It was different because this time, Mickey was staring at an official Chicago Public Schools testing document resting unassumingly on the table in front of him and realizing in a panic that he had no hope of passing it.

It was a placement test for summer school, and potentially, for the following school year. Across the table, Ben was reading a magazine about outdoor sports with unconcern, his phone sitting beside him on the table keeping track of Mickey’s remaining time.

At the beginning of the tutoring session, Mickey had been excited when Ben mentioned the placement test. It was just a practice test, Ben had insisted, just a way to see how things were shaping up in advance of summer school, how to adjust Mickey’s tutoring curriculum, but then his words morphed into an unintelligible babbling blur as Mickey stared hungrily at the test packet in Ben’s hands. At the actual, physical example of Mickey’s potential future in school.

Now, he was looking at the same document, only this time it was in front of him, and he was slowly drowning in the realization that maybe he wasn’t as ready for actual school as he thought he was. 

Finally, mercifully, Ben called time. Feeling an impending sense of doom wash over him, Mickey handed the test to Ben, held his hands flat in his laps, palms pressing together tensely, and watched Ben obliviously grade Mickey's monstrous failure.

He couldn’t help but stare in morbid fascination as Ben went down the standardized marking sheet, checking his answers, frown deepening as he went, coming up on the rows of answers Mickey had left blank in a panic. Finally, he scribbling a score at the top, circled it, and looked up at Mickey.

“Well,” he said, giving Mickey a small smile. “Looks like we still have some work to do.”

That made Mickey snort. He jerked his chin at the answer sheet in front of Ben. “I failed, didn’t I?”

“I already told you, Mickey, it’s not about failing,” Ben said patiently. “You can’t fail a placement test. This was just to give us an idea of where we should focus our attention.”

“But it means I can’t start summer school,” Mickey pressed stubbornly.

“It means,” Ben said, just as stubbornly, unusually stern as he looked at Mickey, “that I shouldn’t have given this to you so early. I should’ve waited another month or so to give you more time to get used to standardized testing formats. That’s my fault, not yours.”

“Just tell me,” Mickey said. He felt defiant, wanting Ben to get it over with already, crush his dreams so Mickey could get on with his day, readjusting his worldview to the idea that he would probably never go back to mainstream high school. “How bad did I do?”

“It’s not about how bad—”

“Just _tell me_.”

Slowly, painstakingly, Ben laid it out. “Well, your algebra is still a little shaky. I think you might’ve gotten nervous on the English grammar portion. We need to work on your comprehension for the science word problems, maybe it’s a question of vocabulary? And I guess we should shift your reading list to reflect more historical nonfiction, to give you a chance to catch up on US history.”

Mickey sat back in his chair, a little stunned by the sheer volume of how much he had to work on to even succeed on a _placement test_. He reached forward and snatched the answer sheet from Ben’s hand, ignoring Ben’s protests.

Feeling like the room was closing in, Mickey scanned down the test, his chest constricting a little tighter at every scrawled ‘X’ Ben had written in to denote a wrong answer. They were everywhere. There were whole rows where he’d gotten _nothing_ correct. 

“Mickey,” Ben said evenly. “I know this is tough. It was always going to be tough, wasn’t it? You’re not just making up three years of school, you’re relearning how to even be _in_ school. That was always going to take time.”

“How much time?” Mickey bit out. “Another year? Two years? I’ll be out on my ass by then. I’m almost seventeen. I’ll never go back to school, will I?”

Ben started in alarm. “Mickey, that’s not true.”

Mickey stood up, test answer sheet still clenched in his fist. “Are we done for today?”

Startled, Ben checked the time on his phone. “Um. I guess, technically—but Mickey, I think we should talk—”

But Mickey didn’t wait for him to finish that. The last thing Mickey wanted was to talk about what an idiot he was. How his brain had obviously liquefied into mush while he was kept in the shed. How stupid he was for thinking that all he had to do was _believe_ , and suddenly he would have a future again. 

He could feel the impotent, roiling frustrating rising higher and higher in his chest, directionless, without intent, just waiting for a target to at which to erupt. He was so focused on the test crumpled in his hand and the screaming anger in his head that he nearly stumbled over Ian as he turned the corner in the hallway.

Ian laughed, reaching from his sprawl against the locker to grab at Mickey's hip, steadying him. Mickey stepped back immediately, and Ian let him, looking up at him brightly.

“What are you doing here?” Mickey asked. There wasn’t any ROTC training today, Mickey was sure of it.

Ian pulled himself off the ground, shrugging. “Thought I’d walk you home,” he said with a determined smile. Something about it set Mickey’s teeth on edge. 

“You have work,” Mickey said tightly.

Ian shrugged, stepping closer. “Not for another half hour. Janice won’t even know if I’m a few minutes late.” He waved a hand to the side with blithe nonchalance. “Besides, it’s not like I’m her library apprentice. I’m not going to work there for the rest of my life.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter, does it,” Mickey said sharply. “You’re going to leave soon anyway, go off and be an officer or some shit. I guess it makes sense to cut your losses now, you know?”

Mickey felt like his ears were ringing, listening to himself say these angry words, spitting them out, powerless to stop them from shooting out like heat-seeking missiles. Ian’s mouth dropped open dumbly, a hot flush rushing up his neck.

“What are you even saying?” Ian asked in a hush.

“I’m saying that I don’t need you around every second, making sure I’m not melting down. I don’t need a babysitter.”

Ian swallowed thickly, looking down at his shoes for a moment before looking straight at Mickey. “I’m not trying to be your babysitter. I thought...I thought I was your boyfriend.”

“I never asked you to do that,” Mickey said stubbornly. He wished Ian would fight back, push until Mickey could justify lashing out. Everything felt so mixed up and jumbled, rising up in an overwhelming wave, until Mickey wasn’t sure what he wanted, if he wanted to fight or run away or shove against Ian or kiss him so hard he made the other boy bleed.

Distantly, he felt his nose start to prickle. There was a wet sensation in his eyes that he blinked at angrily, looking away so Ian wouldn’t see, but that was a lost cause too, apparently.

“Mickey, what’s going on?” Ian stepped forward, sounding worried. He cornered Mickey against a locker, probably unintentionally, judging by the anxious look on his face, but Mickey still felt trapped, his heart starting to pound.

“Nothing’s going on, I’m fine, everything’s fine.” The lie tasted sour in his mouth. Mickey wondered if Ian could see the untruth of it as clearly as Mickey could feel it. 

“Okay, then why are you mad at me?” 

“I’m not mad at you!” Mickey shouted suddenly, his arms shooting out to shove at Ian’s chest so he could move away from the locker, instantly relieved when his back was no longer against anything. “It’s not always about you, maybe I have other shit on my mind!”

Finally, Ian seemed to be getting frustrated, Mickey noted with relief. “I know that, jesus,” Ian said, gritting his teeth. “Don’t you think I know that?” 

“Then stop fucking asking,” Mickey shot back, a little hysterically, because that wasn’t really what he wanted at all.

Ian held up his hands in submission. “Fine. I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

But that was wrong too, Mickey thought in irritation. He wanted Ian to push back, and was simultaneously horrified at himself, at his need to fight, at his willingness to goad Ian into it, too. 

“You don’t deserve this shit,” he said, deflating slightly.

“What shit?” Ian asked, exasperated. “It’s been a rough few months, man. It’s normal to feel out of sorts. It’s not a big deal.”

It _was_ a big deal, though, Mickey thought miserably. That was the crux of it, really. How could Ian not see that?

“Normal? I’m never going to be normal again.” He kicked at a few stray pieces of balled-up notebook paper on the floor with vicious force. Dimly, he knew it was the basic equivalent of stomping his foot like a little kid, but he couldn’t help it. He was angry at everything, and Ian was the only person in front of him right now, and he looked so honestly worried, and patient, and frustrated, and confused, that Mickey couldn’t help but resent him, just momentarily, just for now.

“What does normal even mean?” Ian asked hopelessly. He frowned, like he was trying to follow an argument in another language but was determined to do his best regardless.

Mickey groaned, annoyed. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me that.”

“I don’t know what you want, though!” Ian burst out. “Do you just want to yell at me? I can just stand here, okay? Is that what you want?”

A tiny, furious part of Mickey’s brain screamed, _Yes._ Outwardly, he glared. “You’re just waiting around, hoping I’m going to be better again, and I’m not. I’m never going to be that person again.”

“‘That person’? Who the _fuck_ is ‘that person’?”

Mickey crossed his arms defiantly, scowling, sure Ian was being deliberately obtuse. It was what everybody had secretly been hoping for since the beginning, since he’d been found, that they could undo everything that had happened, peeling him back like an onion to reveal the thirteen-year-old kid he used to be, under it all.

In front of him, Ian put his hands in his hair and tugged at it, his face going red. “What are you even _talking_ about?” Before Mickey could grit out a response, keep the momentum of the argument going, Ian cut him off. “You’re not some investment to me, I’m not putting in the time now because I want you to become someone completely different later on. I fell in love—” 

Mickey went completely still. He could almost feel the blood in his veins halt, everything going cold against the words. “Don’t,” he said quietly, but Ian wasn’t hearing it.

“—I _fell in love_ with _you_. With who you are now, not who you were before anything happened to you or who you might be ten years from now.”

Mickey felt his treacherous bottom lip begin to shake. He tried to tense every muscle in his face to bring it under control.

“Well, that was pretty fucking stupid of you,” Mickey managed to mutter through the sudden tightness in his throat.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ian shot back, nearly as angry as Mickey was now.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have done that,” Mickey blurted out. 

And that was about all Ian could stand of that, apparently. “You know what, fuck you,” he burst out. “It’s not your call, man. This is just the _way it is_. You don’t get to tell me how I get to feel about you. That’s up to me.”

The worst part was, staring at Ian breathing heavily, glaring at Mickey, his cheeks bright red, Mickey could tell he wasn’t lying. He really thought he was in love, with _Mickey_ of all people, the goddamn idiot. Mickey’s insides were twisting with fury and disappointment and uncertainty until it physically _hurt_. He didn’t know how anybody could love him like Ian said he did. He didn’t know why anyone would want to.

“Yeah, because you’re the expert,” he heard himself saying. “

Ian stepped back, stricken. “The hell does that even mean?”

Mickey had to look away, tightening his resolve as he clenched his fists. He didn’t even try to straighten them out this time, letting them squeeze tight until the tendons on the back of his hands strained. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ian reach for him and Mickey skittered back out of reach, dizzy and off-kilter, wanting Ian to touch him but shying away at the same time.

He walked backward a few steps, his shoulders hunching over protectively. “Just leave me alone for awhile, okay?”

Ian started after him. “Mickey—”

“I’m serious, Ian,” Mickey said, voice sharp, and Ian stopped. He stared at Mickey in consternation, and Mickey noted silently, slightly wildly, that even now in the middle of a whirling, impossibly argument, Ian still listened to him. He still stopped when Mickey told him to. That hurt the most, really, if Mickey had to rank it all. How good Ian was. Too good for someone like Mickey. 

He turned away before Ian could argue more, propelling himself down the hallway toward the relative freedom of the outdoors like he was being chased.

He was still clutching the hateful placement test in his left hand, he realized. He crumpled it up and shoved it into the first garbage can he saw without slowing down. He was walking home today, luckily. The last thing he wanted was to sit through a car ride with Vicky and her well-meaning questions about how tutoring had gone. 

He shoved through the crowd at the cross walk, ignoring everyone as he stalked toward home. He veered off at the last second, walked past the neighborhood toward the park near the library, yearning for someplace where he could be finally, blessedly alone. 

At the playground, he curled up behind one of the benches. He couldn’t really understand what he was feeling, and it was unnerving. He was upset, sure, angry at Ian and his dogged, reckless devotion to a fucked up mess like Mickey, but Mickey also felt so scared it was making him nauseated.

He thought of the goddamn placement test, and he thought of never qualifying for summer school, and he thought of doing nothing but fucking around the neighborhood for the rest of his life, dragging Ian down with him. 

Back in Indiana, standing in front of the property, seeing the shed in the distance, Mickey had been struck by the sheer magnitude of possibility in front of him, how he was capable of anything, really, that the choices were endless. It had been freeing then, but now, he was just overwhelmed by it all. 

Everyone thought he was getting better. Even Mickey thought he was getting better. What if there was a ceiling to that, though? What if he’d reached his plateau, and his future was just as bleak now as it had been a year ago?

He stayed at the playground until it got dark, and then he slipped in to his bedroom though the window like he used to do when he would haunt the neighborhood in the middle of the night.

The next day, he left before it got light out. He didn’t want to see anybody for while.

 

***

 

Ian wasn’t completely oblivious. He could recognize a time out when he saw it. Mickey needed some space to cool off. Ian respect that. 

Still, he only lasted a week and a half before he was running off to the Milkovich house to track him down again. He couldn’t stop thinking of the helpless frustration on Mickey’s face as he shouted at Ian and then marched out of the school.

And he had plenty of time on his hands at the moment to dwell on it. His ostensible suspension from ROTC had lapsed, but he had been avoiding returning to drills. He didn’t want to see Rogers again, sure, but he was also strangely disinterested in the whole activity. Instead, most of his energy was focused on Mickey. On whatever was going on with him, really.

He’d been hoping Mickey might turn up at the library during Ian’s shifts, but that turned out to be a pipe dream. It had just been Ian, glancing at the door every time someone walked in, before sighing like a lovelorn damsel and turning back to re-shelving returned books.

It was getting a little pathetic.

Which was why he was standing outside the Milkovich house, pausing to square his shoulders and gird his loins for another argument. He could hear some Milkovich brothers inside roughhousing, swearing at each other. The TV was blaring. Ian pounded on the screen door to no avail. He pounded again.

He was about to just let himself inside when it swung open with such force that it slammed into the wall.

It was Iggy. “What the _fuck_ , man?” he demanded, glaring at Ian. 

“I was just...is Mickey there?” Ian asked, more timidly than he’d like to sound, but he was already nervous and Iggy looked ready to head butt him just for knocking on the door.

Iggy aggressively shrugged his shoulder. “I don’t know, man. Aren’t you his keeper anymore?”

Before Ian could really argue the logic behind that, Mandy stomped to the threshold of the kitchen, pointing furiously at the rowdy occupants of the living room. 

“I swear to god,” she said slowly, menacingly, “if you assholes don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll tear you all to fucking shreds with my _bare fucking hands_.” She groaned in inarticulate rage. “ _Fuck_. It’s like living in the goddamn zoo.” 

In front of the couch, Joey and Colin dragged themselves up from where they’d been wrestling on the floor, looking suitably chastened. Iggy rolled his eyes. “Fuck this anyway. Let’s go to the Alibi.”

He shoved past Ian unceremoniously, and Ian just managed to regain his footing before he was shoved again by Colin, and yet _again_ by Joey.

As he held onto the doorframe for support in their wake, Mandy finally noticed him. “Hey,” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Mickey,” Ian admitted, stepping into the living room.

“Huh,” Mandy said. She looked troubled. “I was hoping maybe he was with you. He’s been in and out like a ghost lately.”

“So he’s not here?” Ian asked, trying not to visibly deflate, but when Mandy shook her head, he couldn’t help it.

Mandy turned back into the kitchen and Ian followed, trying to brainstorm where to look for Mickey next. Maybe the abandoned building? He might be on the roof there, he supposed, but he also got the feeling Mickey was making himself scarce on purpose.

In the kitchen, Mandy sat back down where she’d obviously been pouring over a stack of homework on the kitchen table. 

“What are you doing?” Ian asked, looking over Mandy’s shoulder at the pile of papers.

“Make-up work,” she grumbled. “I’m failing history.”

“I didn’t know you were failing History.” Ian felt himself flush. He was the worst best friend in the world.

“Yeah, I didn’t know either, until Mrs. Stellwagon held me after class and told me she was marking most of my work as zeros. Bitch is saying I didn’t complete the assignments, even when I did. She’s just getting off on the power trip.” 

“That sucks,” Ian said, feeling useless. “Should you go to the dean or something? Tell him she’s being unfair?” 

“Who would believe me? I’m just some hood skank.” Mandy’s smile was brittle as ice as she turned back to the papers on the kitchen table, laboriously erasing an answer at the bottom of a worksheet. 

“I didn’t know you were having trouble with Mrs. Stellwagon.” 

“There’s been a lot going on,” Mandy allowed easily. Too easily. As though it made perfect sense that no one, not even her best friend, would know what was going on in her life, when Mickey deserved the attention more. 

It made the center of Ian’s chest ache, hearing the calm resignation in her voice. “I should’ve known. I’m sorry, Mandy.”

She looked up at him with a smirk. “It’s okay.” She reached over and smacked at his kneecap. “You’ve been busy. I’m _glad_ you’ve been so busy with Mickey, I want you to be. He needs you.”

Her easy trust in Ian’s ability to support Mickey made him duck his head in shame at what a shitty job he was doing at it lately. “You need me too, though,” he argued, bumping Mandy’s shoulder with his hip. “I’m a shitty friend.”

“Yeah, you’re the worst,” Mandy retorted, barking out a laugh.

“No, I really am. I’ll do better.”

At that, Mandy leaned back so she could look at Ian directly. Her eyes softened. “Okay,” she said quietly.

There was a knock from the front of the house, and Mandy and Ian turned at the same time. Someone called in through the screen door. 

“Hello? Mickey? Is anyone—you have an appointment today!”

“We’re back here, Vicky!” Mandy hollered, not bothering to get up from the kitchen. Ian followed her lead, leaning his hip against the table and waiting as the social worker let herself into the house with a huff.

“Where's your brother?” she asked, throwing her hands up dramatically as she stomped into the kitchen. “I’ve been looking for him everywhere, he’s late for therapy.”

“Well, he’s about to be a whole lot later,” Mandy said, flipping to the back of her textbook to check her answers. “He's been giving us all the slip this week. Haven’t seen him since.”

Vicky looked at Ian, eyebrows raised. “Really?” 

Ian shrugged, guilty. “Yeah. I’ve been looking for him too. I think he just needs...some space right now.”

“Is he okay?” Vicky asked worriedly. 

“I think so,” Ian said. “I hope so. I don’t know.” He sighed. Jesus, he needed a smoke. He shoved his hand into his back pocket to retrieve his pack of cigarettes and shook it to see what was left. Three more. He exhaled in relief. 

As he turned to head outside to smoke, Vicky spoke up from behind him. “You mind if I join you?”

He spun around to look at her, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “This feels like a trap.”

Vicky rolled her eyes. “You think only smartass teenagers smoke anymore? Please.”

Ian couldn’t really argue with that, so he let Vicky lead the way to the backyard, ignoring Mandy’s smirk as they left her to her homework.

Outside, Ian headed for the picnic table and threw himself down, letting his legs sprawl out onto the grass. Vicky perched primly beside him, waiting patiently for him to light his own cigarette, then shake out one for her and hold out the lighter.

She inhaled deeply on the lit cigarette, held it, then exhaled with a pleased-sounding hum. “Man. That’s nice.” 

“I really don’t know where Mickey is,” Ian said again, just to cover his bases, but also feeling compelled to admit out loud that he was as bad a boyfriend as he was anything else. He kept replaying the moments from their argument earlier in the week, over and over in a nightmarish loop. It was like a demented circus ride that had no end. He wanted to get off, but he was stuck.

“Did you two have a fight?” Vicky asked, reading his mind with startling accuracy. 

Ian shrugged. “Kind of.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “He says I’m like his babysitter. Or at least, that’s what I think he was mad about. Mostly he just seemed frustrated.”

“His tutor said he had a rough session that day,” Vicky offered.

“He was just so upset, and I didn’t know how to help him. I just feel useless sometimes. Like I don’t know how to make things better for him because I’m too busy being a selfish _dick_.”

Vicky laughed in surprise at his emphatic self-burn, then shrugged. “For what it’s worth, you don’t strike me as a dick, selfish or otherwise.”

Ian put his elbows on his knees, staring glumly down at the grass. “You don’t know me very well.” 

Vicky nodded at that, taking it in, and smoked her cigarette quietly. 

“I _am_ selfish, though,” Ian said after a while. “Before I met Mickey, I was fucking around with my boss at work.” He wasn’t sure where the burst of honesty was coming from, but it felt safe out in the cool shadows of the Milkovich backyard, just him and Vicky alone on the picnic table, so he rode the wave. “There’s this drill sergeant in ROTC, I think if I’d never met Mickey, I might’ve messed around with him too. I think he had a wedding ring. Kash was married too. He was my boss.” He paused, clearing his throat, killing time really. He looked sideways up at Vicky. “What kind of a person does that?”

To his surprise, Vicky snorted, smiling wryly. She kicked her foot out, letting it fall back and sway until the entropy dissipated and her leg fell still again. “Honestly, Ian? The kind of person who does that is impulsive, has trouble seeing the consequences of his actions, wants attention and positive reinforcement, and thinks they’re more mature than they actually are.” She leaned into him just slightly, making him rock to the side. “Basically: a kid. A kid would do that. You’re a kid, Ian.”

“That’s a cop out.” Ian couldn’t help but feel aggravated. It couldn’t be that simple. He couldn’t be off the hook that easily.

“Not according to the law. Not according to any real adult who isn’t a predator.”

They sat in silence for a few beats, Vicky kicking her legs out occasionally, Ian frowning down at his lap.

After a while, Vicky spoke up. “I’m glad Mickey met you. Mickey deserves to have a person like you in his life.”

“I’m scared of messing up,” Ian admitted. “I already have, a bunch of times. I’m scared of fucking up his recovery and everything.”

“I’m scared of that too," Vicky said. 

“Really? But you’re the social worker.”

That made Vicky laugh again, for some reason. “Exactly. I’m supposed to be able to support kids like Mickey, and give them the resources they need to get better. But kids like Mickey are so _vulnerable_. They’ve already had so many people hurt them, and now they’re just out in the world, walking around, nothing really to protect them from getting hurt again but their own skin." She paused, staring at the lit tip of her cigarette, seeming to shrug internally before adding, "I have a lot of trouble sleeping. Especially since I took on Mickey’s case. I wake up in the middle of the night totally panicked that I forgot to do something, or call someone, and that that’s going to be the thing that holds Mickey back.” She sighed gustily. “So I get being scared, is what I’m trying to say. Especially times like now, when I don’t know where he is, if he’s scared or upset or hurt. I just have to put it in the report, maybe wait until I can legally file a missing persons with the police, and even then I have no idea of knowing if it will fix anything. I can’t do anything else. It sucks.”

Ian went still, absorbing the full weight of Vicky’s words. Man, she sounded stressed out. Being an adult sounded just as fucking stressful as being a kid did, and Ian could only sigh, because did it ever fucking _end_? When did it get easier? Probably never.

He finished his cigarette and stood up. “Well. I’ll let you know if he gets a hold of me.”

Vicky stubbed out her own cigarette on the edge of the picnic table and stood as well. “Same.” She patted Ian on the shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” 

Ian nodded distractedly and started for home. He sent Mandy a message as he walked, telling her he’d call her later, and she responded with a photo of her flicking off the camera. He wandered through the neighborhood, feeling out of sorts. He wondered where Mickey was, if he was okay or if he was in trouble, like Vicky said. Ian couldn’t help thinking that if he had just known the right words to say at the high school, Mickey wouldn’t be MIA now.

At his house, he sat on the front porch. It was another cold day, the Chicago spring as yet unsure what it really wanted to be. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, and didn’t hear the pounding of footsteps on the pavement right away. 

When he finally noticed, he looked up in surprise, and was further surprised to see Mickey running toward him. Ian stood up at once, not entirely sure he wasn’t hallucinating. 

Mickey slowed to a walk as he made his way up the front sidewalk, coming to stand in front of Ian on the porch. His cheeks were bright red, his scrawny chest laboring for breath. He was scowling like a thundercloud. He was so weirdly gorgeous in that split second Ian felt a rush a vertigo sweep through his whole body.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mickey spat out when he caught his breath enough to speak.

For some reason, Ian found it encouraging that Mickey still managed to insult Ian despite his breathlessness. 

“Yeah, hello to you, too, asshole,” Ian said. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest, trying to hide the way his hands were shaking. He watched Mickey’s breathing settle. He was holding the gate, ostensibly for support, but mostly because he looked ready fly away with nerves or anxiousness or whatever had driven him to run all the way over to Ian’s that afternoon.

“You’re fucking stupid as hell,” he said. “You’d have to be stupid to want me, to be ready to tie your goddamn wagon to mine when I’m such a mess.”

“You’re not a mess,” Ian argued reflexively.

Mickey shook his head irritably. “Stop it. Yes I am. I’m fucked up and that’s not going to change, not anytime soon, maybe not ever.”

Ian took a cautious step closer. He couldn’t help it. “Why do you think I want you to change?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“I don’t think you want me to change,” Mickey retorted, almost angrily, “and that’s what makes you so goddamn _stupid_.” He pushed off from the gate, moving toward Ian, reluctantly, like he was powerless against the strange, inevitable magnetic pull just as Ian was. “How can you want me like this? How can you want me and _not_ want to change me?” Mickey laughed bleakly. His eyes were shining. 

“Hey,” Ian said, his voice none too steady, “careful. That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.” He took the last few steps until he was toe to toe with Mickey, close enough to touch, close enough to swoop him up into a hug so he could stop saying such ridiculous things, but he didn't. He thought it should be Mickey’s choice, this time.

Slowly, like a tipped tree gaining momentum as it falls, Mickey let his head connect with Ian’s shoulder with a muffled _thunk_. He exhaled shakily, his hands tugging at the bottom of Ian’s coat. Ian let him lean against him, standing passively for the moment. 

“But if _you_ need...a break. If you think it would easier, or less complicated, or whatever, just having yourself to worry about for a second,” Ian said hesitantly. Even though it made his throat feel somehow both dry and painfully thick at the same time, even though it was the last thing he wanted, he made himself force the words out. “Just tell me what you want. Do you want to break up with me?”

Mickey yanked his head back sharply from its hiding spot against Ian’s shoulder, his eyebrows drawn down thunderously in a scowl so ferocious it turned the corner into comical. “Don’t be fucking stupid,” he spat. 

That made Ian huff in surprise, his breath white in the cold. “I thought that’s what I was. Fucking stupid.”

After one last suspicious glare, Mickey sighed and laid his head back down on Ian’s shoulder. “Shut up,” he mumbled. He shuffled closer, leaning more of his body into Ian. “Don’t call yourself that.”

This time, Ian let himself touch. He wrapped his arms around Mickey, pulling him tight so he could bury his nose in Mickey’s hair.

“Come on, now,” Ian said. “Am I stupid? Or am I not? Make the call.”

“Why do you even want to be with me?” Mickey asked instead of making said call. 

The question gave Ian pause. Months ago, he would’ve been able to pick out the individual threads of the way he felt about Mickey, the way he made Ian feel nervous and excited, the predatory look he got in his eye sometimes, the vulnerability that was sometimes painful to behold. But it’s all too complex now, too deeply woven together to try and describe as anything less than the sum total of his parts.

Mickey had gone still on his shoulder, and Ian took a breath, ready to try his best. 

“Because you’re brave. You make me want to be brave.”

“You’re brave,” Mickey argued, sounding perturbed at the very suggestion. 

“Not brave like you.”

“This is going to be fucking tough, being with me,” Mickey said, abruptly changing direction. He leaned back from Ian, creating enough distance between them that he could look up at him with his wide blue eyes. “Maybe not everyday, but a lot of the time.”

Ian nodded seriously, like they were embarking upon a sacred pact together. “Okay,” he said. 

“I just don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with me.” Mickey crossed his arms, then uncrossed them. He looked sulky. Ian just wanted to wrestle him to the ground and wrap him up in his arms and legs so he could never escape. Until he didn’t look so troubled and unsure anymore, until he believed what Ian was telling him, til he believed it always.

“We’re not stuck together. We’re not conjoined twins. We’re just...together.” Ian dared to lean forward and press a kiss to the crown of Mickey’s head. “Is that okay?” 

When Mickey only nodded silently, Ian released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“You need to get a hold of Vicky,” he said after a while, mostly because he felt like he should, thinking of Vicky’s worried face in the shade of the Milkovich’s back porch. “She’s worried about you.” 

“Fine,” Mickey grumbled into Ian’s shirt. “I will.”

There were a million things Ian wanted to know how to say, things that would change things for the better, make Mickey feel secure, possibly forestall any future stupid arguments, but as they leaned against each other on the front porch, Ian let it all go. 

Maybe it was all part of it, he decided. Being scared or stupid, or pushing each other into dumb fights, and feeling helpless about how to make it better. Maybe there was no getting around it really.

He could only do his best, in this moment, to absorb everything, the sensation of having Mickey safe beside him, and do his best to believe that it was enough, for now. So that's what he did. He hoped he was doing the right thing.

 

***

 

Vicky was not happy with Mickey.

Mickey knew this, even though Vicky was giving him an uncharacteristically unprofessional bout of the silent treatment.

They were on their way to therapy. Mickey knew he had missed his appointment the day before, and Vicky had to pull some strings to get it rescheduled to today. She’d also had to move her own schedule around to drive him. Mickey knew this because Vicky had expounded at length in a pointed voice to a somewhat bewildered-looking Mandy when she came to the house and picked up a slightly shame-faced Mickey. 

Offhand, Mickey assumed the silent treatment wouldn't be that affective on him. Talking to other people was so stressful sometimes that the idea of another person actively being quiet around him should be like paradise.

Vicky, however, was unusually skilled at it, and the longer they sat in stiff silence in the car together, the twitchier Mickey became. He felt the pressure building. He was going to break first. Goddamnit.

As they turned into the parking lot of the therapy office, in a burst of adrenaline, Mickey blurted out, “I failed a placement test. For summer school.”

Vicky waited until she had parked the car and taken the keys out of the ignition to turn to Mickey, her face thoughtful. “Can you really fail a placement test?” 

She sounded enough like Ben that Mickey scowled at her. “ _Yes_.” He was tired of this argument. “Yes you can, and I did.”

“Yes, I got a call from Ben. He said you were pretty upset. I guess you’ll just have to take it again, then.” She made it sound so easy. Mickey glared down at his hands, frustrated. Vicky made an equally frustrated sound. “Mickey, I’m sorry that you had a bad day, but you can’t just disappear like that. I was really worried about you.”

“Sorry,” Mickey ground out automatically, but Vicky just rolled her eyes.

“You don’t have to be sorry. I don’t want you to be _sorry_. I just want you to _think_ next time.” 

They fell into silence again, Mickey a little miserably, thinking of Vicky actively worrying about him when he’d disappeared the day before. 

Beside him, Vicky sighed, and the tension in the car began to ease.

“I’m on your side here,” she said finally. “Team Mickey. All the way.” Mickey groaned internally at the cheesiness of it all, but Vicky put a hand on his knee, startling him. “I’m serious. So is Ben, and so is Dr. Tran, and so is your sister and your brothers and Ian, and from what I can tell, Ian’s family too. I even got a call from some woman at the library where Ian apparently works, asking what it would take to get you a job for the summer.”

Mickey stared even more fixedly down at his hands, torn between gratitude and the weight of responsibility that came with knowing so many people wanted Mickey to succeed. It made the stakes so much higher if he wasn’t able to, he was coming to realize. If he failed.

“No one is expecting miracles,” Vicky said, correctly interpreting the root of his intense stare-off with his lap. “All we want, all _I_ want, is for you to focus on your recovery. Even if that means absconding to Indiana against my wishes.” 

That made Mickey look up in surprise, then dawning guilt, as Vicky raised an eyebrow judgmentally. 

“Yes, I had my suspicions about your little road trip to Indiana, despite my _very valid concerns_ ,” she said archly. “I can’t prove anything, but I know enough about teenagers to know I was probably barely out of the driveway before you made a run for the state border.”

“I’m sorry,” Mickey said, even though he knew it wasn’t really true as soon as he said it. Vicky seemed to realize that, reaching over to open his door.

“Go on,” she said. “You’re going to be late.” 

Mickey hopped out of the car. He turned and saw Vicky smiling at him, shaking her head ruefully. Something about it made him feel warm. Protected. It was a lot of pressure, having so many people care, but it also wasn’t always the worst feeling in the world.

As he walked into therapy and sat down at his usual place in Dr. Tran’s office, something Vicky said kept bouncing around in his head. He couldn’t really pin down what he thought she meant. He soon realized he didn’t even know what it meant, really.

He put down his pencil where had been drawing and looked up at Dr. Tran, who was sorting some files on his desk, the casual, low-pressure energy of their sessions filling the room with a low, buzzing ease, only the sound of papers moving gently together and the _scritch-scritch_ of Mickey’s pencil audible for a while now. 

“What does recovery mean?” 

Dr. Tran looked up thoughtfully. “What’s that?” he asked asked, meeting Mickey’s eyes, and Mickey didn’t avert his gaze immediately.

It was so much easier now, looking people in the face on the first try. For a while Mickey had thought it would never come naturally to him again, but like so many things, he’d been incorrect, fantastically so.

“Recovery,” Mickey repeated carefully. “Vicky was talking about it.” He nodded at a row of books on the shelves on Mickey’s side of the room. “It’s all over those books. I know it’s a thing.” 

Dr. Tran tilted his head to the side. “What do you think it means?” When Mickey gave him a sour look, Dr. Tran laughed lightly. “I know you don’t like when I turn it around, but it’s an important question. It means different things to different people.”

Mickey sat back, letting the pencil drop onto the table in front of him. Now that he let himself think about it, the word, what recovery might represent in the wide, amorphous world of therapy, it felt bigger than a simple sentence or two, somehow both intangible and intimidating.

He’d heard the word a few times when he was younger, when his mother had gone through a handful of rehab phases. He didn’t think it meant the same thing now, with him. He wasn’t sure though, since that was his only frame of reference. 

“I guess it means going back to your old self, again,” he said after a while. “Being who you were before things got all messed up.”

As he said it, he realized that if that was what recovery meant, he was in trouble. He didn’t think that was possible for him. Most of the time it was nearly impossible not to think of who he was Before as a completely separate entity, a boy from an almost entirely different universe from where Mickey lived now.

Dr. Tran watched him for a moment, as though he was tracking Mickey’s disheartened thoughts at the implication.

He nodded. “Sometimes, trauma victims spend a lot of time trying to get back to normal. They think about recovery as the steps needed to do that,” Dr. Tran said agreeably. Too agreeably. Mickey felt one eyebrow go high on his head.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. It’s a pretty common assumption. To want to be normal again.”

“So why is it bad to want to be normal?”

“It’s not bad. It’s just—sometimes, it creates a false sense of security. That if you can just be who you were before, then things will be better.”

It didn’t sound so bad to Mickey. He would give anything to turn back time to a moment when he knew nothing, when his dad was a simple irascible bully and Mickey was still cautiously, hopefully worshipful for him, of his attention. Before he knew the truth of everything that had happened, the depths of it all, the treachery. 

It seemed so unfair, sometimes, that Mickey didn’t have the ability to go back in time, to readjust the path of his life. To be in control of its trajectory, at least. It made him feel panicked, thinking of how easily years were taken from him, without his consent or approval or involvement, until he was spat out the other end, with no way to recoup the losses or make up for the time he lost. It was maddening. 

Frustrated, he glanced at the papers strewn about the coffee table. The one he’d been drawing most recently was dark, mostly shadows. He wasn’t an incredible artist, but he was getting better, the images less boxy and stick-figure based, the lines and shading becoming darker, more confident. Sometimes he had vague fantasies of asking Ben about art classes.

Then he sucked those fantasies back in just as quickly, because he wasn’t an artist. He was drawing shitty pictures in therapy, _jesus_.

“The thing about recovery, the thing most therapists and people who go through counseling agree on, is that it’s pretty impossible to become the person you were before. But that’s not just true for people who have been through trauma, Mickey. Three years is a long time. You’ll probably never be the boy you were before again, but right now, you’re working on becoming the young man you _want_ to be. You’re in control of that, not anybody else, now. And I’m not going to lie to you, Mickey. This is the hardest part of recovery: accepting that it’s a lifelong journey.” Dr. Tran made his fingertips into a steeple, resting his chin against them lightly. 

“Lifelong?” Mickey repeated, dismayed. That sounded like a very long time. 

For some reason, Dr. Tran smiled at that. “Think of it this way: for the rest of your life now, you’re in charge of what you want to be. Every day, forever, you’re in charge. You get to decide what recovery means for you, and how you want to change, and become, and turn into. It’s all about to you.”

It was a huge, terrifying, exhilarating feeling, hearing that. Mickey felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, but he wasn’t afraid. He remembered the day Mandy brought him to the edge of the roof of the abandoned building and told him to scream. It had been harrowing, letting all of that noise out of him, but at the same time, he had felt so powerful, at least for a second. 

He wondered if he believed what Dr. Tran was telling him about recovery, if that meant he would be able to feel like that powerful all the time. 

He was still wondering that when the session ended, and he wandered outside, scoping the parking lot for Vicky’s car. She wasn’t there, though. Mickey paused, unsure, and then he jumped at the sound of his name.

“Yo, Mickey!” Iggy stepped out of the Chevy parked on the opposite end of the parking lot. Mickey could just see Colin sitting in the backseat, staring down at his lap, probably messing around on his phone. “The social work lady said she had another client to go see. She said I should pick you up.” 

Mickey felt his shoulders stiffen as he walked closer. Things had thawed between Mickey and his brothers since they’d helped Mickey mastermind the covert trip to Indiana behind Vicky’s back, but that didn’t mean they’d started talking to each other all that much. When he looked at his brothers, sometimes it was hard not to see miniature copies of his dad. It made him feel guilty, but he still did his best to avoid them. Which apparently he wouldn’t be able to get away with now.

He climbed into the front seat, putting on his seatbelt and staring out the window. Iggy got in and started the car. “How was therapy or whatever?” Iggy asked, a stubborn cheerful note at the edge of the words. 

“It makes me tired,” Mickey said after a deliberate pause. Neither of his brothers took the hint.

“I bet,” Colin said from the backseat. “Talking about your feelings all day like some girl, probably really takes it out of you.”

Beside him, Mickey saw Iggy glare at Colin the rearview, and Colin shut his mouth with a click. 

“You’ve been sticking it out, though,” Iggy said after a pause. “I think that’s kind of cool.” Mickey couldn’t help but give him a withering look, and watched with moderate satisfaction as Iggy blushed defensively. “I’m just saying! It takes balls to keep doing something even when it’s fucking hard and shit.”

“That’s what she said,” Colin muttered under his breath, then giggled to himself.

“That’s enough from the backseat,” Iggy said warningly. He spared a glance at Mickey. “I’m just saying, is all.” 

Even weary from therapy and with the uncertain specter of recovery hanging over his head, Mickey felt strangely flattered at the praise. He looked down at his lap, trying not to let it show. “Thanks,” he said gruffly.

They rode in silence for a while, but it grew slightly uneasy as it stretched on. Mickey got the feeling Iggy was working up to something. He wasn’t disappointed.

They pulled up to a stoplight, and Mickey watched suspiciously as Iggy turned down the radio. In the backseat, Colin went still and alert.

“Dad’s lawyer called today,” Iggy said, staring determinedly at the windshield. “He wants us to testify. The trial’s not for a few months, and it’s just preliminary stuff. But the lawyer said Dad wants us to testify for him. Talk about his character, maybe, or even help him work on a defense. Say how he couldn’t have killed those guys, because he was with us or some shit.” 

Mickey drew his shoulders in, trying to make himself smaller. As he listened, he was already accepting that his brothers would probably do it, help his dad like that. He was their _dad_. He tried to tell himself he couldn’t blame them, really.

“We told him to go fuck himself,” Colin said from the backseat, and at first Mickey was sure he had misheard him.

“Well, technically we told the lawyer to tell Dad to go fuck himself, but I think he got the message,” Iggy amended.

The light changed, and Iggy drove through the intersection. For another few blocks, Mickey didn’t know what to say.

“Why,” he finally managed to croak. “Why did you...?” He couldn’t help trailing off, still tongue-tied with disbelief. 

“Because fuck him,” Iggy said sharply. “You're our brother, Mickey."

They were pulling into the neighborhood now, and as Iggy parallel parked near the house, Mickey stared at him. Iggy shifted, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“I just thought you should know,” he said, somewhat crankily. “He’s dead to us.” 

“Are we the mob now?” Mickey asked, trying to disguise the shaking in his voice with bravado. 

Iggy punched him lightly on the shoulder as Colin levered himself up so he was between the two front seats. “Fuck you,” Iggy said, smiling.

“And fuck him,” Colin said, more seriously. He put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey startled, looking at it in surprise.

He looked at Colin, then at Iggy. His brothers would never be great orators. He was surprised they’d managed to express this much emotion. They were much more suited to showing how they felt with violence, or with swearing, mostly.

Looking at them now, though, at the intense promise in their eyes, like they wanted to say so much more, explain so much more, but were honestly incapable, made something in Mickey unwind. A corner of his mouth twisted up.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Fuck him.”

The three of them stared at each other for another long second, until Colin effectively broke the mood. “Alright, I gotta take a shit,” he said, sitting back so he could unlock his door. “Let’s get inside.” 

Iggy groaned, and Mickey couldn’t help but laugh, once, quietly, mostly to himself, but still strangely light to his own ears.

His brothers got out of the car, and after a moment, Mickey followed them inside.

He felt strangely, unexpectedly light. He thought of Dr. Tran. Mickey thought that if he was really in charge, if he could decide what he wanted recovery to feel like, then he wanted it to feel like this, like being chosen, protected, like he _belonged_ , forever.

And right now, there was only one other person he wanted to share that feeling with.

 

***

 

For once, Ian was alone in the Gallagher house. Fiona was working the night shift and Debbie had taken Liam to her friend’s house for a sleepover, and Lip was off with Karen and Carl was probably committing a misdemeanor somewhere and all of that meant, ultimately, that the house was pleasantly silent, and Ian was sprawled across his bed, trying not to fall asleep at eight p.m. like a goon. 

He was sleepy from a closing shift at the library, and he was going to go see Mickey soon, eventually, but for now he was just going rest his eyes for a minute, nothing serious, he was definitely getting up in a minute, and then suddenly he was asleep.

Until the sound of the door to his bedroom closing jerked him back to consciousness, and the click of the lock. He startled and sat up, squinting as he recognized Mickey’s shape in the shadow of the doorframe.

“Hey,” Ian said groggily.

Mickey turned around. “Hey,” he said. He was smiling, even though he looked like he was doing his best to tamp down on the expression. Even so, he looked slightly like a sunbeam. 

Ian pulled his knees up so he could hook his arms around his legs. “What’s up?” he asked. Just seeing Mickey biting back on a smile was making Ian beam back at him.

Mickey crawled onto the bed next to Ian, and instead of answering, pressed a soft kiss to Ian’s mouth. Ian made a surprised sound at the gentleness, kissing back enthusiastically nonetheless.

And Mickey didn’t seem keen on talking anyway, pressing Ian back against the sheets, yanking off his shirt and then his pants, getting lost in kissing Ian again for a while, then ripping at Ian’s clothes like they offended his dignity, until Ian laughed and they were both naked, writhing against one another on the bed. 

It felt like they were in a perfect cocoon, nothing from the outside capable of interrupting as they ran their hands over each other.

Moving to straddle Ian, Mickey pressed the length of his body down against him, holding Ian’s hands together by the wrists above him so Ian was helpless to do anything but lie there as Mickey devoured his mouth, licking inside like he wanted to taste as much of Ian as possible. 

When Ian felt close to coming just from rutting together and making out, Mickey pulled away, huffing against Ian’s lips. “Where’s your stuff?” he muttered, biting a series of sharp kisses down Ian's throat. Ian arched at the almost painful pleasure, moaning, but when Mickey pulled away he blinked, finally registering the question.

He pulled his hands away from Mickey’s hold so he could twist for the bedside table, fumbling for condoms and lube. When he turned back, Mickey yanking the lube out of his hand, reaching to prep himself.

But when he went to put a hand between his legs, Ian stopped him. “Let me,” he said softly. “I want to do it.”

Mickey’s face was red and shiny and he nodded, looking lost as he handed the lube back to Ian. Ian slicked up his fingers and used his other hand to pull Mickey back for a kiss, distracting him as he pressed inside Mickey with the tip of his finger.

He loved the sounds Mickey made, the way he pressed down to chase the feeling of fullness. Ian cupped Mickey's head, guiding him so they could kiss deeper. He pressed another finger in, scissoring them gently until Mickey was moaning and squirming, pressing down for more.

As Ian fucked both fingers in and out, Mickey broke away. “Fucking _do it_ , jesus, Ian.”

Ian laughed wildly, chasing after Mickey’s mouth again while he added a third finger, ignoring Mickey’s impatience. 

Mickey’s movements grew jerky, like he was losing control, and Ian had a brief thought of making Mickey come from his fingers alone, but Mickey jerked back with a huff.

“Ian,” he said sternly, “ _now_.”

And just like that, at the sight of Mickey's unbridled  _need_ , Ian couldn’t wait anymore either. He barely had time to scramble for the condom, rolling it on and slicking up his cock with more lube before Mickey pulled it up, pressing it to rim of his hole. Ian watched in wide-eyed awe as Mickey lowered himself down slowly, so slowly, Ian didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone fuck themselves on a cock so _slowly_ , until Ian groaned, feeling himself bottom out inside of Mickey.

Fully seated on top of Ian, Mickey braced his hands on Ian’s shoulder, pausing to stare down at him, his face split by a wide smile. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes almost piercingly bright. Ian felt like a caveman, breathing heavily through his mouth, nearly cross-eyed with lust, unable to do anything intelligent but stare, completely absorbed in the boy above him. 

He held Mickey’s hips, digging in too hard with his fingers, probably leaving bruises. “Mick,” he gasped out, shifting his hips, but Mickey held his shoulders firm, keeping him still, seeming content to drink in the sight of Ian beneath him for now, of every gasp and squirm as Ian did his best to keep from moving.

The moment stretched on, and on, until Ian felt close to losing his mind. Then Mickey licked his lips and sat back slightly, pressing Ian’s cock even further inside him, making them both suck in a sharp breath.

Mickey sat up on his knees, pausing at the top so just the head of Ian’s cock was inside, keeping them both on the precipice, leaning most of his weight on his hands spread across Ian’s chest. Ian felt like his whole body was shaking with anticipation, and just when he was  _sure_ Mickey would start moving then, he felt Mickey’s hands knead his chest like a cat. Mickey’s smile went small and happy.

“I love you,” he said, his voice hoarse and breathless, and he sank down to sit hard on the cock inside of him.

It was all Ian could do not to come right then. 

He clenched the muscles in his belly and thighs tight as he could, biting his lip, his balls screaming with the aching need to go off but Mickey started riding him then and Ian refused to miss this, he couldn’t end this before it had even begun.

Mickey jerked himself up and nearly off Ian, then slammed back down, no rhythm to speak of, like he was too out of his head with pleasure to keep track of the tempo, riding Ian mercilessly, driving himself brutally hard onto Ian’s cock over and over, his own cock swollen and slapping against his stomach with each bounce, leaving nothing for Ian to do but hold on, watching in awe as Mickey drove them both crazy.

Even though Mickey was in charge, Ian couldn’t help but drive his hips up in needy little thrusts of his own, chasing the heat of Mickey’s body each tie he pulled off of Ian’s cock, the distance too far even for the seconds it lasted.

“Mickey,” Ian muttered, mindless, “oh my fuck— _Mickey_.”

Mickey leaned forward so their chest pressed together, moaning as his cock dragged against Ian’s belly. He licked at Ian’s chest, dragging his mouth up to Ian’s neck so he could bite, hard, hard enough to make Ian throw his head back and howl, even as Mickey never stopped fucking himself on Ian’s cock, like it was the last thing he wanted, like he never wanted it to stop.

“Don’t stop,” Ian muttered, the very idea making him crazed, “jesus, just keep—forever, _please_ , Mick.”

He brought his hands up from Mickey’s waist, gripping Mickey's back tight so they were pressed together, pulling Mickey up and back, adding leverage to Mickey’s movements so they were coming together in hard, brutal movements. Ian had a moment to worry that he was hurting Mickey, but then Mickey drew back, just enough that Ian could see his face again, and he was still  _smiling_ , wide and blissful, his eyes glazed and unfocused, his body shaking, his cock wet and leaking as it bounced and waved.

He was muttering something, Ian realized, something Ian couldn’t hear through his own gasps and the pounding of his heart, and finally he couldn’t take it. He sat up abruptly, grabbing hold of Mickey with both arms and flipping them so Mickey fell flat against the bed. The new position changed the angle of his cock and they both cried out, Mickey arms and legs locking automatically around Ian as he humped helplessly into the cradle of Mickey’s legs.

He buried his face in Mickey’s neck, and that put him close enough that his ear was next to Mickey’s mouth, where he was mumbling still.

“I love you,” Mickey said softly, almost unconsciously, “I love you, love you, love you.”

Ian gasped, and everything in his head went white. His whole body stiffened as he came, the sensation stretching on forever until his body jerked spasmodically, his balls aching as they emptied in a rush. 

In the ringing aftermath, Ian felt Mickey shifting to grab hold of his own cock and Ian reached to join him, jerking him over and over until Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, his frenzied proclamations of love turning into a long, low moan as he came all over his chest and Ian’s hand. 

They both collapsed, equally stunned, lying wet and panting against each other for a long time.

Finally, Ian rolled to the side, just enough to pull out and give Mickey room to breathe, but still close enough to wrap an arm around him. 

“Mickey,” Ian said, feeling shaken and unsure and vulnerable all at once. 

Slowly, Mickey turned his head to look Ian in the eye. “I love you,” he said again, no longer a mumble, his voice clear and certain. He blinked sleepily though, and let his head fall so his forehead rested against Ian’s temple.

He could almost feel Mickey fall asleep in real time. He seemed calmer than Ian had ever seen him, and Ian didn’t think it was all due to the sex. There was a sense of peace about him. Distantly, Ian thought it might be something like hope, almost.

Ian thought he was feeling that too, the heady certainty of wanting this forever. As he settled back, Mickey nothing but a dead weight against his chest, Ian thought about sleeping next to Mickey, fucking Mickey, arguing and fighting with him, just _being_ with him.

As he closed his eyes, Ian knew there was no way to know what the future would hold, the next year, the next month, even. But that was the whole point of hope, wasn't it, he pondered drowsily, and besides, he was certain of one thing, even as he felt tendrils of sleep begin to curl around him. He was sure that he could be hopeful for Mickey, for the rest of his life.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your patience, you guys. I really appreciate it, and hope that this chapter was worth it. I read and appreciate and fucking _cherish_ each and every comment and Tumblr message, and am so blown away by all the hits and kudos, and you dudes are seriously the absolute best. No joke. Now please, join my in ch. 12 for the conclusion/epilogue! :)


	12. Epilogue

***

**April**

***

 

Mickey really liked the beach. Sitting in the sand, looking out at Lake Michigan, he couldn't imagine wanting to be anyplace but where he was, right now.

It was still too cold to swim, or even walk in the surf of the fresh water as it crawled up the sand in steady waves. Instead, Mickey and everyone else sat huddled in an uneven cluster above the tidal line, stubbornly ignoring the persistent chill in the spring air.

The cold didn’t matter really. They were celebrating, after all.

Mickey stared out at the water, mesmerized by the easy, repetitive sameness of it all. He thought of the unchangeableness of water. He’d learned during a science unit with Ben that water never disappeared from the Earth, that it just changed form, evaporating and condensing in endless formation, from rain to lakes to oceans to clouds.

He thought, drowsily, that he would like to be a cloud.

Beside him, Ian leaned heavily against him, pressing Mickey into the sand. “What’re you thinking about?”

Mickey did his best to hide his grin, transforming it into a partial scowl. “None of your business.”

Ian pushed further, flattening Mickey with his body into the sand. “Come on. Secrets are lame.”

“Get off,” Mickey protested, snorting a laugh against his will.

Slightly higher on the sand, Debbie and Liam watched Ian wrestle Mickey down, snickering as Mickey struggled to get on top. Without warning, Ian went limp, laughing as Mickey gasped for breath. 

“You weigh a million pounds,” Mickey said, trying not to giggle because it was undignified, but giggling slightly anyway. 

“Excuse you, I work hard for my physique,” Ian said in mock outrage, sitting up and releasing Mickey from being pinned against the sand.

“You guys are gross and I don’t like you,” Lip said with a groan, turning his back on them deliberately.

Fiona smacked him lightly over the back of the head. “Lighten up, christ. They’re sweet.” 

“No, they’re pretty gross,” Mandy agreed with Lip, turning her attention from watching her other three brothers conduct a very serious debate about the dwindling supply of beer, and looked at Mickey and Ian with a critical eye.

“Traitor!” Ian said, pointing at her in faux outrage. 

“Well, stop feeling each other up in public, then,” Mandy retorted primly. “There are children present.”

“Chillren,” Liam repeated placidly.

Ian got to his feet, turning to haul Mickey up beside him, ignoring his complaining until they were both standing. “Fine!” Ian said, grinning. “I can tell when we’re not wanted. Come on, Mickey, forget these losers.”

“Losers!” Liam mimicked, louder this time.

“That’s right, Liam,” Lip said, coming close to kiss the toddler on the forehead. “They are losers. You and me are cool kids. We shouldn’t hang around with losers.” Lip shook his head back and forth, Liam watching the motion in hypnotized silence, until he copied it clumsily, shaking his baby head from side to side too. Lip looked to Fiona in triumph. “Look! He’s learning how to be cool.” 

Fiona rolled her eyes, taking Liam from Debbie’s lap and pulling him into her own. “Don’t listen to him, Liam. Don’t be a bully.” Liam grinned at her, and Fiona looked at Ian. “While you guys are going on a walk, want to pick us up some ice cream? I think this little guy’s got a craving.”

She handed over some crumpled bills, ignoring Ian’s protests that he had his own money, and then they were taking orders, crunch bars for the big kids, a popsicle for Liam, and a strawberry shortcake for Debbie, who serenely ignored Carl and Lip’s heckling that it was a flavor for grandmas.

Mickey looked on, content to listen silently, standing close at Ian’s hip. Finally, Ian turned away, repeating the orders under his breath a few times until he brightened. “Got it!” He tapped his temple. “Like a steel trap.”

Mickey rolled his eyes and tugged on Ian’s arm until they were strolling down the sand together.

It was technically spring break for all the kids in school, and even though Ben had offered to tutor Mickey through the break, after his second placement test had been more successful Ian had convinced Mickey to take the week off to celebrate.

After all, Ian had argued, Mickey only had two more months until summer school started, so they might as well savor their freedom while they could. 

He’d said it casually, no real weight to the word, but it had stuck with Mickey regardless. Freedom. It was a heady thought. 

He did feel more free these days, in a wild, overwhelming kind of way.

Dr. Tran had said he could cut back on therapy sessions if he wanted, from twice a week to once a week, but Mickey hadn’t made a decision yet. He was comfortable in the routine they’d established, in the built-in hours of quiet he had in Dr. Tran’s office, expanding on his drawings from black and white to colored pencils, from memories of his captivity to attempts at capturing the therapy office, the skyline outside, Ian laughing, Mandy and his brothers watching TV, the shockingly pristine blue spring, Ian sleeping, a stray dog near his house, Ian, Ian again, usually Ian.

He hadn’t shown any of the drawings to Ian, actually. He thought maybe one day he might, and even though Ian knew, hell Mandy and his brothers knew too, that Mickey was establishing a steady hoard of therapy drawings, no one had pushed for him to share them yet. Like twice-a-week therapy, it was comfortable for now. It felt like a secret, but a good one, something benign and easy, that he was quietly proud to know even existed in the first place. 

Maybe he’d show them to Ian this summer, when he started summer school.

He’d been placed in the ninth grade. Ben had been ecstatic. Mickey, less so. He was three years behind all the kids his age, he pointed out sullenly. Technically, he _should_ be a year ahead of Ian, and now he’d barely be out of middle school. Ben, on the other hand, had confided that he’d been expecting Mickey to be placed in late elementary, maybe sixth or seventh grade _at best_ after the results of the first placement test.

Ignoring Mickey’s chagrinned blush, Ben had declared, “I guess I just underestimated your determination! You’re just like Black Beauty!”

Mickey supposed it was nice, that Ben was so excited for him, although he didn’t know if he was in love with being compared to a horse in a book.

Ben had been _so_ thrilled by the contact high of Mickey’s success that he’d actually marched up to Vicky after that tutoring session and asked her out on a date.

Vicky, shocked into silence, had warily nodded her acceptance.

When Mickey had told Ian about his ninth grade placement later that day in the Gallagher backyard as they were sharing a cigarette, feeling somewhat mortified of what he felt was a pretty shitty accomplishment, all things considered, Ian’s mouth had fallen open in awe.

As he’d come down from shock, Ian had startled Mickey by jumping to his feet, wrapping his arms around Mickey’s waist and heaving him up, twirling him around like a starlet in an old movie.

Mickey had yelped, smacking at his arms to let him go. “Put me down, you weirdo!” he’d shouted, barely able to hear himself over Ian’s ringing laughter. 

Finally, he set Mickey down, and before Mickey could yell at him, had backed him into relative privacy of the siding behind the porch and kissed Mickey's face and murmured into his ear and rubbed his hands all over Mickey’s body and been generally embarrassing until Mickey had blushed and squirmed and ended up coming in his jeans in self defense. 

Mickey was ready to keep the news mostly to himself after that though, but then Vicky had told Mandy, and Mandy had told their brothers, and when Mickey got back that afternoon, suddenly every male Milkovich in the vicinity seemed to be manfully pretending that they had dust in their eyes as they patted Mickey awkwardly on the back and on the shoulder. 

Mandy was less embarrassed to show her emotions, as usual. As soon as she walked in the door and spotted Mickey being inelegantly congratulated by their brothers, she screamed and ran to jump into his arms like a koala, wrapping her arms around him and sending them both tumbling to the floor. 

“What the _hell_ , Mandy?” Mickey demanded, voice muffled in her hair.

“I’m just so—holy shit, Mickey!” She had to stop to gulp back tears, and Mickey decided that he didn’t have to shove her off just yet, letting her collect himself as they lolled together in the entryway to the Milkovich house. 

And now they were at the beach, on what Mickey stubbornly refused to call anything but a spring break day, and everyone else merrily and loudly insisted was Mickey’s Back-To-School Extravaganza (Debbie and Carl made signs, Carl’s elaborately misspelled). Iggy called it Nerd Day, which Mickey almost preferred.

They'd threatened to hold off until the next week, when Mickey was officially turning seventeen, but the thought of his birthday was still overpowering, the actual, real evidence that the last year was _real_ and not an elaborate hoax his brain had constructed was too much.

So he'd insisted on the beach trip, and his family and Ian had acquiesced easily enough, which he appreciated.

As they walked along the beach for ice cream, Ian held himself back from actively holding Mickey’s hand, the beach still half empty in the cold April wind. Mickey could tell it was costing him, though, and every few steps Ian swung his arm so it knocked into Mickey’s, or twisted around so he could kick at Mickey’s feet.

“Knock it off,” Mickey said gruffly, pretending to be annoyed.

Ian smiled sunnily down at him. He bumped Mickey with his hip, sending him stumbling to the side. “You need to learn how to deal with bullies now that you’re getting mainstreamed,” Ian said loftily. “Remember, use your words.” 

Mickey rolled his eyes expansively, driving his elbow into Ian’s side, who laughed and darted out of his way, then yelped when his feet hit the frigid lake water, skittering back to Mickey’s side.

“You won’t have to worry about bullies, though,” Ian said, more seriously now. “I’ll look out for you.”

Despite some theatrical grumbling about the True Nature of Summer Break, Ian had enrolled in a few summer classes as well. Lip had suggested it, still under the assumption that Ian was shooting for West Point. Mickey was the only one who knew Ian had unofficially bowed out of ROTC. After hearing about that asshole Rogers, Mickey had been ready to fucking bring some pain himself, but Ian had stopped him. The army wasn’t his future anymore, he’d told Mickey intently, looking at Mickey in a deep, searching way that had made Mickey go wide-eyed, unable to do anything but stare back at him. 

Ian had other plans for his future now, he’d said, smacking a hard, loud kiss on Mickey’s cheek and darting away before Mickey could think to complain.

On the beach now, Mickey paused, glancing up at Ian, feeling suddenly serious at the thought of Ian being there with him in a strange new environment like summer school. “I’m glad,” he said.

All teasing seemingly forgotten, Ian looked a little dazed as he looked at the sincere expression on Mickey’s face. The moment was only broken when Ian stumbled over his own feet, distracted by the staring.

Mickey _was_ glad that Ian would be at summer school. He was glad that they basically had the whole summer together, as it turned out.

Vicky wasn’t entirely sold on the summer job idea for Mickey yet, but she was weakening the more Mickey bugged her about it. She wanted him to focus on his credits in summer school, but Mickey had spent an afternoon developing strategy with Debbie and come back to Vicky arguing that time management was an important skill and a full schedule would help him divide his time more maturely. He even managed not to make a face as he spoke, gritting his teeth to get the ridiculous excuse out in full.

And Vicky had been grudgingly impressed. The added call from Janice extolling the virtues of youth engaging with literature and the personal responsibility gained from employment hadn’t hurt either (even if Janice had been careful to promise Mickey and Ian that their scheduling would not allow for canoodling—although Mickey had a feeling they could work around that).

Now there was just a long, endless week of hanging out at the Gallagher house and going to McDonald’s with Mandy and Ian and tentatively, cautiously watching TV with his brothers and sneaking off to let Ian fuck him at any and all given opportunities.

The strangest thing of all was how at ease he felt with it all. Sometimes, he felt so startlingly _happy_ that he forgot he had ever felt any other way.

That wasn’t all the time, though. A lot of the time, he struggled with a strange feeling of shame, that he shouldn’t be enjoying his new life as much as he was because of what had happened to the boy he used to be, the boy who suffered and nearly died in the box.

Dr. Tran called it survivor’s guilt. “You’re grieving for the identity that was taken from you,” he insisted. Mickey didn’t know if that was entirely accurate, but he didn’t argue with the therapist, too tentative to identify the feeling on its own, instead letting it wash over him in waves whenever it hit rather than fight it, absorbing it and then moving on as best he could.

More often than not, he felt a steady wariness every time he got too comfortable. An awareness that this too could be taken away in an instant, that he could lose it and go back to something horrible once again.

Surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly at all, Ian seemed to always be able to sense when Mickey was overcome with these feelings of anxiety. He would notice how Mickey began clenching his hands, struggling to keep the palms flat, and Ian would reach over and cover them both with his own larger, freckled hands.

He didn’t always say, “I love you.” Sometimes he just nuzzled into Mickey’s temple until he relaxed, or sat quietly beside him until Mickey sighed and got restless and dragged them both off somewhere to fool around and come until he couldn’t think anymore.

Sometimes, though, Ian would whisper, “I love you, you know,” so quietly that no one but Mickey could hear him, even if they were in the Milkovich living room or the Gallagher kitchen surrounded by a half dozen other people.

Those times, Mickey’s eyes would close down like shades drawn suddenly shut in a storm, and his whole body would go loose in an overwhelming rush. It was like resetting a clock.

Just thinking about it now, the way Ian’s voice would go low and intent, made Mickey feel flustered and he looked down, distracting himself with the way the sand shifted beneath his feet, and the screaming of the seagulls over his head.

At the ice cream truck, the girl handing out ice cream tried to happily flirt with Ian, and Ian was so distracted laughing with Mickey over nothing in particular that the girl had to shout for his attention three separate time to give him the correct change.

She smiled ruefully at Mickey as Ian pulled him away. Ian was completely wrapped up in their argument about whether Janice and the librarian janitor were hooking up, poking Mickey in the arm as they argued, and Mickey found himself smirking back at the ice cream girl, sharing a silent moment commiserating over the tunnel vision of boys in love.

By the time they got back to their group on the beach, the sun was high up ahead. The sunlight was direct enough that although it wasn’t hot out, the sand by their towels and chairs was soothingly warm when Mickey settled down into it.

He watched Ian hand out the ice cream and held his own cone to his chest, licking at it distractedly as he settled deeper into his pocket of sand.

Iggy and Colin bickered amiably over the Sox’s chances for the season. Lip teased Mandy about the yellow highlights she recently added to her hair, and she flushed and swore in response, trying to act like she was above the attention, although she was clearly basking in it.

Ian sat down beside Mickey, sitting close enough that the sand shifted and they were in the same indented pouch, hips and shoulder pressed tight together.

If Mickey inhaled deep enough, he could just smell Ian’s shampoo. He did just that, holding the breath in his lungs, then letting it slowly out. He bit off the last of his ice cream then let his eyes drift slowly closed, the sun bright enough that he could see the orange glow behind his eyelids.

The conversations around him drifted into an ambiguous haze. He let his mind drift in a new way he was practicing with Dr. Tran—letting his thoughts untether themselves, but still keeping himself anchored in the moment. It felt good. It felt like he was in control. 

He thought of summer school. He thought of the library. He thought of Ben’s goofy smiling face when Vicky said yes to the date. He thought of the serene feeling he always got in his chest in Dr. Tran’s office, and the view of the neighborhood from the top of the abandoned building that he and Ian had claimed as their own. 

Mostly, he found his thoughts returning, unsurprisingly, to Ian, both the boy beside him and the boy in his memories and the one he expected to have for a long time. Like there were multiple Ians, stretching out into infinity and forever.

Then, more soberly, he thought of his dad. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel immediately resentful, or dejected. He breathed in deep, pressed his hands flat on the warm sand on either side of him, his right pinkie pressing up against Ian’s hip. He didn’t actively wish his Dad well, but for once, he didn’t wish him ill. He felt remarkably neutral when he thought of Terry in that moment, and it felt like a grand, marvelous victory.

It did make it harder to drift, though, and he found himself becoming more aware of the conversations around him again, just for a moment.

Carl was pestering Lip about the hierarchy of grades in school. Mickey let his head fall to the side, opening his eyes just enough to squint and look toward Carl and Lip.

“So if Mickey’s in the ninth grade now, does that mean we might have classes together?” Carl asked, scrunching his noses curiously.

“You’d have to actually pass the sixth grade this time around to have any chance of lapping Mickey,” Lip said, reaching out to rub at Carl’s shaved head. Carl leaned away, laughing, and Lip followed, catching him in a noogie.

“It doesn’t matter,” Fiona declared. “Any school is good school. Hell, I never even graduated. You kids are lapping me.” 

Mandy studied Fiona thoughtfully. “You ever think about going back for your GED?”

Fiona laughed lightly, disconcerted, and Mickey smiled to himself at the dogged focus on his sister’s face. It was nice to see it directed at someone else for a while.

Slightly behind them, Mickey’s brothers argued over the last beer in the cooler. Iggy declared it was owed to him because he was the oldest, while Colin complained that he drove, so he deserved the beer. Meanwhile, as Colin and Iggy were distracted arguing, Joey had managed to sneak the bottle out of the cooler unnoticed and was slowly, carefully popping the lid with the bottle opener, trying to make as little noise as possible to avoid notice.

Mickey's eyes drifted shut again. He felt Ian’s hand wrap around his own discreetly, mostly covered by the sand. He thought he could easily fall asleep here. Ian squeezed his hand lightly, and Mickey smiled to himself. He could definably fall asleep here.

After an indeterminate amount of time, where Mickey may or may not have floated off into a hazy nap, he felt Ian’s nose brush against the outside of his ear, making him shiver lightly.

“Wake up,” Ian whispered, letting his lips flutter against Mickey’s earlobe. “Fiona’s handing out sandwiches. Better hurry if you don’t want Carl to steal yours.”

Mickey mumbled incoherently, and grinned when he heard Ian chuff out a laugh. 

He let himself bask in the warmth for another moment, the sun on his skin, the sounds of Mandy and Ian arguing about something in increasingly loud voices above him, the waves washing steadily against the sand, and he had a brief wish that that moment would last forever. It couldn’t, though. He knew that.

It was time to wake up now.

He opened his eyes.

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart, for giving this fic a chance, and following it through to its conclusion. I can't express to you how simultaneously nerve-wrecking and gratifying it has been to share this writing experience with you all. All of your support, and patience, and genuine, thoughtful comments have just floored me throughout. Thank you, again. You're truly, truly wonderful, and you deserve only good things in life.
> 
> Tumblr: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com
> 
> ETA: If you'd like to read some future headcanons about the BITB gang (because a sequel is just not in the cards, sorry dudes), you can read that [here](http://ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com/post/116642472217/it-would-be-cool-if-you-could-do-a-sequel-to-bitb).


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